Shadows Amongst the Leaves
by RinoaDestiny
Summary: When Legolas is taken captive by Orcs, nightmares begin. Can Elves still remain Elves even when in darkness? [UPDATE: CHAP. 20]
1. Falling into Darkness

Disclaimer: Legolas, Gimli, and the entire Fellowship are Tolkien's creations. As well as his other characters, I almost forgot. Hee…

Shadows Amongst the Leaves

Chapter 1

There were too many Orcs to count, swarming over the slopes and rocks of Emyn Muil. While hobbit cries rang out throughout the sparse forest, two friends were fighting to stay alive and to save each other. Legolas swiftly nocked his bow, pulling the string of Elf-hair taut with skillful hands; the arrow stood straight, its metal tip gleaming in the dim sunlight. Without warning, without any sound, the Elf released the bowstring, sending the shaft in one blur into an Orc's throat. With a grunt, the creature fell backwards, grappling the empty air. Scanning the woods around him with clear and piercing eyes, the Silvan Elf noticed his friend cleaving Orcs apart with Dwarvish ferocity. Dark blood spilled at Gimli's feet, splattering onto his armor and beard. Legolas glanced around, then returned his bow to his back and jerked out his long white knife.

There were so many of these fell creatures.

The Elf darted around, twisting his body in full rotation as he plunged the knife into the body of an Orc and ripped upwards, slicing flesh and bone and organs. The Orc fell dismally, splashing blood onto Legolas' elven cloak and onto his face. Ignoring the sudden warmth of gore on his flesh, the Elf continued fighting. The silver blur of his knife slashed fell creature after fell creature, piling bodies all over the ground and staining the leaves below their misshapen bodies. Caught in a dervish of survival, the young prince of Mirkwood slaughtered his foes alongside his shorter but stouter companion.

"Gimli, what say you of this misfortune?" Legolas said as he dispatched another Orc with a swift underhand blow of his knife, puncturing the thin chainmail. Blood sprayed onto his pale hand and rusted the shimmering green of his cloak.

"A darker omen of times since we have set forth," the Dwarf answered brusquely. "Of which we can only defend against, Master Elf. But you have my hard axe to depend upon, while I trust on your swift bow and knife."

Legolas shook his head, flicking several bloodstained strands of fair hair aside. "If the Ringbearer and Boromir had not come to some strife, this perhaps could have been thwarted. What say you of Boromir's fate at this moment, Gimli?"

The Dwarf frowned. "No doubt in my mind, Master Elf, that he would be fighting for his life."

"Did anyone else accompany him in his struggle?"

"We cannot tell, Legolas," Gimli warned. "There will be more Orcs ranging the forest. Do you believe he needs aid?" The Dwarf tightened his grip on his axe. "He has yet to summon us to his aid through the call of his horn."

The Elf prince narrowed his eyes. "I shall not tarry until it is too late. Come, friend Gimli. If another of us falls, the Fellowship will suffer a foul end that will be pleasing to the enemy. As an Elf, I cannot watch that come to pass. As a companion, I will keep our bond close. Do not tarry, for Boromir might need our weapons."

* * *

Boromir whirled around, his sword flashing in the light that filtered through the leaves. Bodies strewn over the bloodstained ground lay as a testament to his fighting prowess, even as more of the foul and cruel creatures known as Orcs closed in for the kill. But Boromir gave them no advantage at hand, no pause to draw sword or to hurl weapons from far range. The man of Gondor, pride running through his noble blood, drew no unnecessary breath as the melee continued. 

Behind him, Merry and Pippin trembled with fear, even as they held their knives close to hand.

* * *

Legolas released his arrows, thudding them with a satisfying sound of success into the sprawling Orcs. His garb was drenched with blood – not his own – and the Elf smiled grimly as he nocked his bow for yet another kill. Next to him, Gimli growled in hopes of intimidating the fearsome creatures. For one of his stature and girth, Orcs were much to be feared. 

"Friend Gimli, how have you fared?"

Gimli wielded his axe in both hands. "Fine by Dwarvish customs, Legolas."

"As for me, 'tis the same as fighting in Mirkwood, the land of my father." The Elf glanced to his left and another Orc tumbled down the slope, a foreign arrow in its eye. "Come now. We have much to do."

"Wait, Legolas, you fool Elf! Where are you headed?"

"Towards the east, Gimli. I think I hear the sound of battle from far off." With that, the cloaked Elf sprang lightly away on agile feet. "Hurry, my friend, for I fear to leave you behind."

The Dwarf grunted, indignant, and ran after the fleet-footed Elf.

* * *

Merry and Pippin dodged in and out of the few Orcs that threatened to draw close to them; however, Boromir sidestepped one of the fell creatures and the Orc crashed to the ground with a cloven head. The hobbits drew back from the corpse, their faces frozen with fear and disgust. Towering over their little forms was a human born of fault, yet he destroyed all who would harm their innocence. 

That was when one of the first arrows soared through the air, feathered black with doom.

Boromir staggered back, a look of pain and disbelief on his face. The shaft had pierced maliciously through his chest, close to his shoulder and he lost blood readily down his back and front. A normal man would have fallen, would have turned around and condemned himself craven, but the prince of Minas Tirith roared in rage and struck down more Orcs that dared to approached him.

But time was soon to betray him.

* * *

"Boromir!" Legolas gasped, sheathing his knife and drawing his bow from his back. Quickly, he nocked an arrow and crept closer to the scene of the battle. "Alas, he has taken a wound! Gimli, what say you in terms of strategy? I would shoot down the Orc-archers, and you can have Orcs for your taking?" 

"Good by me," the Dwarf answered, staring down at the overwhelming number of hideous creatures below him. "Watch your back, Master Elf."

"I will. Watch yourself as well, friend." Legolas leapt down the hill, his light step hiding his approach. Suddenly, the second black-feathered shaft flew, thudding with a sickening sound into Boromir's chest. Startled by this, the Elven prince bit his lip and let loose the arrow. An Orc shrieked, collapsing into the leaves and one of the archers turned around.

Legolas gave the Orc no chance to shoot.

With a blood-chilling scream, it released its bow; its body slumped lazily to the ground. As for Gimli, son of Gloin, the axe in his hand hewed limbs and heads with a sweet sense of triumph. Bodies littered the once tranquil forest, although Boromir, to Legolas' despair and knowledge, was dying. Even as Legolas fought, he saw the noble man being pierced by many arrows and even his swift knife was not enough to cease such horror. Orcs swarmed after him, hatred of Elves naked in their twisted and ugly faces, and Legolas felt his spirit shirking back from such dark and bitter expressions.

"Boromir!" The hobbits' clear voices rang above the din and the Elf threw a glance at Merry and Pippin, who had rallied themselves forth at Boromir's behalf. However, Legolas soon felt his soul grow cold as the Orcs seized the merry folk, throwing them over their burly and grotesque shoulders like spoils after a hunt. Throwing caution aside, Legolas darted towards the escaping group of Orcs, determined to rescue the hobbits from a cruel fate.

That was when Gimli, Elf-friend, struck with a blow from behind, fell senseless to the scarred earth.

The Elf, turning his head back, saw the fall of his companion, and rage boiled in his restless blood. There was no time for tears or agony, but Legolas felt a strong grip of grief choking his breath from him. Orcs from both sides, seeing the Elf frozen in indecision as to whom to turn to and aid, threw themselves at him. Legolas wheeled around smoothly and stabbed one Orc in the stomach, sending the blade upwards into the ribs and thereby ending the miserable creature's life. Another one, crudely armed, raised its blade above its head as if to cleave the young Elf in twain; without pause, Legolas' knife found its mark in the Orc's face, splashing blood further upon his cloak.

But, alas, there were too many.

Grunts of Black Speech and snarls of anger rippled from the seething mass of Orcs and the language of Mordor itself gave the Elf pain. At the Council of Elrond, he covered his ears when Gandalf spoke the words, so dreadful were they to one whom spoke only the eloquent Sindarin. But here, he had to battle; he had to stay alive – he could not shy away from such dark words.

And yet, he cringed from the fearsome darkness of that foreign tongue.

If he had been alert at this moment, he would reflect afterwards, the things that happened later would not have existed. While driving the Black Speech out of his mind and dealing death and judgment to the Orcs – his most hated foes, whom slaughtered his mother – Legolas noticed not an archer from behind him. Distraction and inward fear of Mordor's twisted tongue had smothered his most acute senses.

For without warning, Legolas suddenly released his knife with a cry and staggered forward. A black-feathered arrow, buried into his chest, dripped fresh blood and the Elf felt strength ebbing slowly from his body. Hideous faces pressed close, weapons gleaming wickedly in the cold sunlight and the tongue of the Enemy roiled its dialect through the mob. Desperate to flee from such evil, the Elf whirled around, only to find himself outnumbered and surrounded. Gimli had not roused and Aragorn – where was Aragorn?

"Aragorn!" Legolas cried out. Where was the princely man whom he well respected?

The mob surged forward, casting themselves upon the helpless Elf. All would have been lost to Legolas, son of Thranduil whom ruled the forest of Mirkwood, had not the leading Orc, Grishnákh raised his hideous hand. Words of Black Speech tumbled out, jarringly sharp and blunt in its message. The other Orcs jeered the command, some hissing, but later howled in triumph and malicious delight.

_Don't kill the Elf! Let's use him for sport! Destroy his beauty - make his blood flow. Take him to our master Saruman!_


	2. Beginning of Fire and Blood

Author's Comments - thanks for all of the encouragement from the readers. For me, a series is incredibly hard to finish, although easy to start. I've had to eliminate two series in other categories before, because they're so hard to write. However, with the 'LoTR' madness that I'm currently in, and with major thanks to PJ for producing a lavish and grand movie – I just might be able to finish this one. ;;;

**Shadows Amongst the Leaves**

Chapter II 

Aragorn closed Boromir's eyes, grief heavy in his heart. The Ringbearer was gone, missing and doubtlessly on his way to Mordor because of Boromir's succumbing to the ill token. As for Gimli, he had found the Dwarf lying prostrate on the blood-drenched ground, a dent in his helm. Gently, with the hands of a Ranger and healer, he aroused the Dwarf to his senses and tended to his needs; however, Gimli cared not for his wounds, but cried out for Legolas. For amongst the missing, the younger hobbits and the Elf were nowhere to be found.

It had chilled the Dunedan's heart to find the silver-hafted long knife buried in the troubled leaves, for the Elf never kept his weapons far from hand and Aragorn sensed an ill omen. The knife now in his own belt, Aragorn swore that he would one day return the weapon to the young prince.

That is, if the Elf lived to claim it.

"Boromir is slain and the Fellowship scattered," Gimli said dryly behind him. "Legolas is missing along with Merry and Pippin – where should we proceed?" The grief and clipped tones in the Dwarf's voice did not escape Aragorn.

He turned to the bandaged Dwarf, eyes fixed on sorrowful dark ones. "Frodo and Sam no doubt went their way to Mordor. And Boromir is fallen – oh, a great man of Gondor! I cannot say any good will for the other three, for dark are the paths they are walking and with Orcs, no less!"

"You believe Legolas is captive amongst Orcs?"

"Yes, even if Orcs hate Elves with a hatred that burns hotter than the fires of Mount Doom, they will take them for sport. I will not tarry longer here, for while the Halflings may be safe for as long as the Orcs are deceived – the Elf will not last perhaps more than two days and nights."

Gimli glanced at Aragorn, darkness veiling his bearded visage. "Then when shall we depart?"

"After we lay Boromir to rest, Gimli, son of Gloin."

* * *

Darkness lay in his dreams, unceasing in its relentless fury. Legolas shrank from the horrors of the unknown shadows, for which no weapon at hand could harm and vanquish. He glanced at the trees, horrified at their wilting leaves and rotting branches – sicknesses that he once thought could not fell the land of the Elves. Rivendell and Lothlorien, under siege, under fire from the Dark Lord. Elrond and Galadriel, living sacrifices to Sauron and their subjects enslaved and slaughtered. His father, led in chains from Mirkwood, tossed to Orcs and mortal Men for sport and blood. His brothers, elder and second youngest, slain in brutal ceremony. 

Blood flooded the land, destroying all beauty in its crimson wake. Orcs roamed lands foreign to them, slaying all who would not bow down to Sauron's reign. Legolas, overwhelmed by such horrid visions, turned his eyes skywards. Alas, though! There were no stars and the moon hid herself from such violence. Starless nights, harried subjects, subjugated lands and rulers…

"_Daro!_" Legolas heard himself cry out, frantic and fraught with horror at such tidings. "_Daro!_" His screams of terror halted the speeding line of Orcs, who turned back to glare malevolently at the awakening Elf. Grishnákh growled, annoyance and hatred welling deep from his throat. Motioning the others to proceed, he clanked towards the back of the line.

Legolas thought he could make out a shadow advancing his way, but whether it be from his dreams or reality the Elf could not tell. Roughness gnawed at his wrists, cutting the soft flesh beneath and staining the ropes with blood. Pain throbbed in his chest and the Elf stumbled, his gait uneven with weakness. Strong arms from both sides of him yanked him upright, nearly throwing him to his feet.

The shadow advanced closer and suddenly, a slap jarred his vision, arresting his dream in a bloody haze. The strong arms released him and the Elf fell ungracefully to the ground, pain wracking his body. Eyes opened, Legolas stared at the Orc glowering down at him and his blood chilled.

He was a captive of the Orcs.

No Elf ever survived being any Orc's prisoner, for their hatreds ran deep.

"Legolas!" Frantic and childlike voices called his name. "Legolas!" The hobbits – Merry and Pippin. So they were unharmed. Legolas struggled to free himself, but found his wrists raw and bleeding. His body ached and the arrow wound burned, searing fire along his chest – he found it difficult to draw breath.

Black Speech hissed and grated around him and the Wood-Elf cringed, wanting to cover his ears. He heard the hobbits' cries of concern, but they soon faded. Where were they taking the hobbits and why did they take him prisoner? A sword point arrested his motion and brought him face-to-face with the Orc before him. Yellow eyes burned into the Elf's being, cruelty like molten fire in the creature's feral irises.

The sword point scraped along the Elf's throat and Legolas fought back an urge to cry out, for blood soon trickled uncomfortably down his neck and into his torn and filthy tunic. The Orc smiled, sinister in appearance and mood, and withdrew his sword.

Legolas fell back in fright, his breath becoming shallow.

* * *

"Their tracks are easy enough to spot even without Elf eyes, Gimli." Aragorn raced past the many torn and stripped trees, reading signs in the trampled foliage and dying flowers. "Although if Legolas were still here with us, we could much benefit from his sight." 

"I wish him alive after this," the Dwarf replied, tramping through the abused grass after the Ranger. "Orcs are foul and cruel creatures – I hope the darkness of Mordor will not kill our companions' spirits."

Aragorn sighed, knowing that while Halflings could resist, an Elf would be hard-pressed in such times. He had seen many a time the mutilated body of an Elf while wandering. It would not do if Gimli were to see such horrors – even Aragorn himself hoped that Legolas would find life amongst death.

But how long could the Elf resist?

"Hurry on, Gimli. The sun falls short towards the horizon and the Orcs have advanced farther than us by several hours. Hope will remain if our feet remain swift. Let us not doom our friends and allies to an untimely and brutal death."

* * *

Night fell fast with an unnatural shroud, black and starless in its void. The Orcs, seeing no need for rest, hurried on with rough feet and uncouth commands. While the hobbits made no complaints, fearing the wrath of their captors, the Elf found himself surrounded by hostility and brutality. Although he said not a word, Legolas found his footing unsure and wavering, stumbling forward many a time and thereby receiving abuse on all ends. His chest pained him and his face throbbed where the Orc captain slapped him. 

He wanted to sing to bring some light into his agony, but his songs would bring him a swift death.

Legolas did not wish death so quickly, even in such darkness.

"Move it, you lazy filths!" Grishnákh growled, moving from the beginning of the ranks towards the end. "How's the Elf?" he asked, Black Speech splintering into hisses from his foul mouth.

"As weak as a Man," one of the Orcs answered, spite dripping from his voice. "See how he stumbles?"

The Orc captain motioned for the two to cease, then stood in front of the Elf. "Not an Elf much longer," he mocked, glaring at the listless form of Legolas. "Open your mouth! What would the soon-slave of Saruman say about that?"

Legolas looked up, a strange fire burning in his soul – it burned in his eyes. He could feel it even in his weakness. "Nay! Sauron and Saruman shall not take me! And I shall not serve with ranks of fell beasts such like you and your kind!"

The Orcs drew away from Grishnákh, fear in their eyes. The Orc captain snarled angrily at the defiant Elf, his hand whipping towards his sword hilt. "A death wish, Elf?" Behind him, the other Orcs held their breath, afraid of their captain and gleeful of what was to come. Merry and Pippin watched with alarm as the Orc unsheathed his sword, its evil blade pointed at Legolas' chest.

And yet, the Elf prince stood tall and proud – Thranduil's son.

Minutes passed, then Grishnákh smiled. Turning to the other Orcs holding Merry and Pippin, he growled out a command in his dark and accursed tongue. The Orcs began to march; the hobbits screamed in fear, for themselves and for the lone figure of the standing Elf. As their screams disappeared, the Orc captain turned back to the two that watched and held Legolas captive.

"Beat him."

* * *

_Daro_ - Sindarin for "stop" or "halt." 


	3. Breaking of the Soul

**Shadows Amongst the Leaves**

Chapter III 

Back in Mirkwood, Thranduil suddenly awoke from his slumber. A darkness and agony consumed him and a terrible premonition of danger aroused the Elven king to his feet, whence he stumbled out into the hall. Elves, still enjoying merriment and wine were startled to see their king awake. Thranduil felt his soul cringing and reached out for the source. There was something amiss, something deadly wrong.

"My lord, what troubles you?" A Wood-Elf asked, coming close to hold the trembling king and to guide him to a seat. Thranduil's pallor on his fair face was white and the Elves spoke in fearful whispers, for it was not very often since the king had troubles plaguing him. "My lord, do speak."

Thranduil swallowed hard. "I feel an evil presence, far away. I do not know of what or whom, but someone is hurting. I cannot find out whom."

"Could it be an Elf from our land?"

"How could that be, except for my son? And he is an accomplished warrior, capable of dispatching foes and darkness." The Elven king closed his eyes, seeking for the source of the agony piercing through his senses. "Although he is young and still has much to learn."

"Prince Legolas is not one to fall victim to fell beasts, my lord."

"Perhaps not, but –" Sweat beaded on Thranduil's forehead, wet against his flesh. "Wait. My soul cries out…I perceive some voice crying out from the deep."

The Wood-Elf next to the king knelt down, grasping his lordship's hand. "And what does it say, my lord?"

"I believe I hear something like, 'Father!'"

"What?" the Elf asked in disbelief. "Father? But the prince –"

"'Father!' My son…my youngest son!" Thranduil turned to the Elf, eyes wild with worry. "Can we not do something for him? 'Father!' He is crying out to me!"

* * *

_"Father!" _Legolas cried out, desperation and fallen hope in his plea. There was an emotion that lingered close to tears in that soft voice, albeit the prince held back his own sorrow. The Orc captain sneered down at him, then reached in and seized him by the torn front of his bloodstained tunic, shaking the Elf like a limp corpse. Bruises, dark and broken, marred the flesh beneath the ripped fabric and blossomed like evil flowers on the prince's arms. Tatters of elven cloak, shredded by swords fluttered in the chill wind. Grishnákh drew the Elf close to him, breathing upon him his foul breath as he spoke. 

"You scared, Elf? We aren't, snaga! Try to run or fight - won't help you this time! We'll drag you with us - you'll scream. The Halflings listen, and they'll watch what we do to you. Death to those who disobey; we'll make you ask for it."

Unshed tears in his dim eyes, Legolas turned his head slightly to perceive the blurred figures of Merry and Pippin. Pain lashed out at him and the Elf recoiled, only to hit hard earth beneath him. Broken bones jolted his raw nerves and the young prince screamed in agony. Orcs laughed and surrounded the Elf, kicking him and spitting on his writhing figure. Legolas tried to hide within himself, but his wounds prevented his temporary escape. A mail-clad foot connected with a broken rib, driving the bone deeper into internal flesh.

The Elf cried out, his vision suddenly dark and murky.

"Legolas!" Merry and Pippin yelled out in horror. An Orc keeping watch over the two forced them down, threatening death if they would not stay silent. Legolas heard faint cries, although he could no longer perceive whether they were of others or of his own.

"This isn't enough!" An Orc snarled thickly, breaking through the circle surrounding the fallen Elf. "Destroy his beauty! Give him a reminder of his time here. Look at the Elf - he still shines!" The other Orcs were quick to agree, for the fair creature at their feet remained untarnished – even bruises and blood had not marred his beauty.

"And? What do we do?"

The outspoken Orc unsheathed his dagger and grabbed a handful of Legolas' tunic, pulling the prince up. Legolas groaned in pain, his eyes nearly closed. "This is what we do!" One swipe of the black blade and the other Orcs cackled and laughed in malicious delight.

Merry and Pippin gasped, frozen in shock.

Legolas' fair hair scattered upon the trampled black grass, glinting in the cold fire of the Orcs' makeshift camp. Shorn, the Elf looked less fair and less ethereal – as if the gold of his tresses had given his face light. As if agreeing to the Orcs' counsel, the wind broke loose, rustling grass and shrubbery with cold laughter.

The Elf heard nothing.

* * *

"Aragorn! We must rest for awhile, for although the endurance of Dwarves is trustworthy, I shall need some breath!" Gimli said, trudging besides the Ranger as they wandered in the valley after crossing the treacherous ridges of rock that threatened their steps in the dark. 

"So you shall, Gimli, for I need to breathe as well."

"I thought you were already breathing, for you still live," the Dwarf replied back curtly.

Aragorn glanced up at the stars in the sky, then back down to the Dwarf. "I had no thought of humour since our Fellowship broke. However, you seem to retain your words well." As he watched, he noticed Gimli flinching at the harmless words. "Forgive me, my friend. 'Tis a hard night."

"Aye. I dread to think of how the three fare, driven by Orcs towards dark lands."

"I fear the Elf's life most, Gimli. Orcs do not spare such enemies, opposites of them in both beauty and innocence." The Ranger sighed. "Even for an Elven prince, Legolas will not fare considerably in a throng of foes."

"We have yet to find tokens from his being, save for his knife."

"That is what I dread, Gimli. For if he is not yet dead, he will die soon."

* * *

Merry and Pippin shrank back as the Orcs flung Legolas at their feet, so sudden the change in the dark creatures' minds. Creeping forward, they patted the Elf on the cheek, hoping to arouse him back to consciousness. It is very hard to arouse companions with bound hands and the Elf did not stir. His fair hair, savagely cut to his ears, fell sadly around his face. Blood smeared his pale flesh, heightening his deadly pallor. 

"Legolas!" Merry whispered, trying to shake the prince out of his dark slumber. "Pippin, what are we to do?"

Pippin shook his head. "Why ask me?"

A sudden outburst towards the center of the camp arrested the hobbits' attention, and they watched as the Orcs argued amongst themselves. It could only be about their fate and the hobbits closed their frightened eyes as violence erupted, shedding more blood into an already gory and vicious night.

* * *

The trees were no more. Legolas bit back a sob, staggering back from such a barren landscape. His beloved home, Mirkwood, was gone. His father and brothers dead, slain by fell creatures that desired blood. He had no place to return to – no home or abode to wander back to afterwards. The moon shone down on him, but to the grieving Elf, her light was cold.

Legolas ran then, in his dreams, far away from that terrible landscape – away from all he feared. Shadows swarmed thickly around him, trying to tear him apart with their limbs. He ran, racing past sullied lakes and streams – past bloodied fields and bare forests with stumps. The shadows pursued him, shrieking unknown words in a sinister language, in a horrible inflection. The Elf dared not look back, for to do so was to forfeit his innocence.

If he looked back, he would forfeit the light within his soul.

Horrible images of fallen Men, Dwarves, and Elves flitted through his troubled mind. Haldir, slain and hung as an example in the charred forest of Lothlorien. Gimli, cleaved through with his own axe. Legolas fought back a choking sob that threatened to tear his composure apart. Gimli, dead? Aragorn, fallen on a field, his sword broken in twain. Lord Elrond the Half-Elven murdered along with his two sons and his fair daughter. His father, gutted and spitted on a hideous Orc spear.

Legolas stumbled and fell to his knees, tears falling out of darkened eyes.

_Why?_ He screamed at the bleak sky, hands raised in anguish. In his grief, the shadows drew closer and Legolas found himself suffocated and surrounded by their black forms. Try as he might, he could not separate them from his being and they forced their clammy fingers through him. Wounds opened on his body and his blood began to pour onto the ground.

He screamed with agony, with dread, and with fear. He did not want to die. But who would help him? Could anyone aid him in this darkness?

_"Help me!"_ he screamed, hoping someone would listen to him.

But all he heard was laughter.


	4. Hope Forlorn?

Author's Comments: Angst is gritty, but it's fun, isn't it? ;; As for tormenting poor Legolas, it's part of my plot – a little more and then I'll try to lighten up. But for now, it's all a wild ride that doesn't stop until the merry-go-round crashes. p

**Shadows Amongst the Leaves**

Chapter IV 

Nightmares and nightmares, incessant and dark plagued his dreams, banishing starlight and song. Legolas slipped deeply into unconscious rest, unwilling to fully awake until his turmoil ceased. And yet, awakening to the harsh realisms of his life were warranted, for the Orcs were not satisfied by simple torment. The shadows seizing at his soul dragged him into a maelstrom of dark images and murder; resist though he might, his own determination wavered and Legolas grasped desperately at whatever light he could see.

He did not have much time left and he did not wish to depart by grief. Elves do not part with the earth unless forced to, and the young prince did not seek death. He had to look out for Merry and Pippin, lest some ill omen befall them; however, the Elf felt all the pains settling upon his own frail frame.

"Merry," he whispered one morning, grabbing at the hobbit's grimy hands. "How are you faring?"

The Halfling looked back at the Elf, concern naked in his eyes. "I am fine, Legolas. It is you that worries me. You cry out in your sleep and if not, you tremble as if in fear."

"I am glad that you and Pippin are not hurt, although, I fear for myself. I cannot find solace in my sleep, for I see violence and doom. The Orcs hesitate to slay me, perhaps for some ill purpose…I cannot say." A sigh escaped from Legolas and the Elf cast his sight downwards, eyes devoid of light. He could not seem to find any hope left – how did the Halflings fare in such conditions? "I wonder what has become of Aragorn and Gimli. The last I saw of the Dwarf, he was felled. Gimli, son of Gloin and Elf-friend – no other friend do I love more!"

Merry reached forward to affectionately tussle the Elf's ragged hair. "Do not do this to yourself, Legolas. You will survive this in the end, as all of us will."

"All of us? I believe that to be false."

"By what do you mean?" the hobbit asked, surprised.

"Gandalf fell in the deeps of Moria and then Boromir and Gimli at Emyn Muil. Do you believe an Elf without his weapons at hand could survive amongst Orcs?" Legolas looked away, misery welling from deep within his soul. "If Aragorn fails to find us soon and you survive, tell him farewell and to bring news to my father."

"Legolas!"

"The Orcs abuse me more as the hours draw close, Merry. Even if they choose not to slay me, I shall find no joy in this world left. I will choose to die and to be forgotten, for such is the way of Elves in despair." Thranduil's son closed his eyes, drawing in a painful breath. "It is good, though, that you and Pippin are with me – without company, I would have perished long ago."

The hobbit stared at the Elf; dark eyes meeting formerly clear ones. "Listen, Legolas. You will live and go back to your home. Do not worry, for we are here."

For once, since that fateful day at Emyn Muil, Legolas smiled. "Much thanks, Merry." The sound of rough footsteps approaching alerted the Elf and Legolas released the hobbit's hand. "Watch over Pippin for me, all right? They have come again for sport – for their hatred will not be quelled." As a rough hand seized him, smelling of cruelty, blood, and sweat, Legolas released himself into his dreams, where nightmares were kinder than reality.

* * *

The two hunters raced down the slopes of Rohan, their legs stirring the verdant grass that had remained untouched by Orcs. After the barren bleakness of the highlands of Emyn Muil, this was a pleasant change. However, Aragorn and Gimli saw no reason for lingering long, for the search for the captives had led to an unpleasant discovery. While in despair at not recovering tokens of their seized companions, they had come upon a blood-soaked turf, scattered with the hewn bodies of mutilated Orcs. An argument had erupted, Aragorn explained after searching the area, and the Orcs slew those in disagreement. 

As of the captives, they were nowhere to be found.

The hours that passed them by seemed to fall into the ill use, and Gimli spoke. "Aragorn, at this pace we will never find the remnants of the Fellowship and all the while, the hobbits and the Elf are in death's shadow!"

"He might be in it at this moment," Aragorn replied, knowing of Elvish ways. "Alas, that the leadership falls to my hands! If I could be swifter, they would be safe now."

"Then we must talk later and run for now!"

"You are right, Gimli. You run fast for a Dwarf and your stubborn stoutness gives us hope! Let us search while running, for I sense some light at the end of this darkness!"

* * *

He saw his father. Thranduil, king of the Silvan Elves living beneath the trees of Mirkwood. He saw his father alive. In disbelief, Legolas ran close, and then drew back in caution. After all of the frightening images that assailed his mind, he could not just fall for a shadow. For an illusion. The Elven prince held his eyes on the august and fair majesty of his paternal blood; was he dreaming? 

He was dreaming, though, he reminded himself.

And dreams were never real.

"Who are you?" he asked the figure. His voice sounded unlike his own, full of dread and apprehension – not some trait expected from one of noble blood. "I ask of you, shadow that reveals itself as my father, who are you and what do you seek from me?"

Thranduil reached out his arms, almost touching his child. "Legolas, it is not an illusion you see. I heard your cries – son, where are you?"

Legolas stumbled back, his emotions coming to the fore. Tears welled in his clear eyes and the Elf saw not his father. "How did you find me? I have long waited for death, dreading her touch but she dares not take me as of yet. I have lost sight of the light that guided me in my life and have despaired of living. Father…do you hear me?"

"Legolas, reach out for me. I have suffered anguish at hearing your cries and know that you are surrounded by darkness. And yet, I can impart the will to live and some light into your gloom. All you need to do is to trust and take my hand, my son."

Tentatively, the young prince reached out. His father! His father had found him and sought to remove from him this burden of lingering death! This was no shadow and illusion! How could he have believed otherwise? Thranduil was so close; this was the one who gave him life through his mother and raised him to become a strong and valiant warrior. This was the one who gave him condolence when his mother died, instead of hurling insults like arrows at his heart.

Legolas reached out, felt his father's fingers, then slipped…

The Elf jerked out of his reveries, gasping in pain as a stripe of flaring pain seared down one shoulder and then stripped the flesh off his bones on the other. The Orcs treated him worse as each hour passed, but dared not slay him at the commands of their captain. In a faint, Legolas held his last dream close to his spirit – he nearly found hope. His father found him, but their meeting was not to last long.

Still, he found some remnant of hope and that was enough as long he still drew breath.

"I say not farewell, yet," the Elf whispered as he passed again to faraway places. "_Ada_…"

* * *

"A quiver and a bow!" Gimli shouted, raising the weapons above his head with strong hands. "A token at last of the Elf! I hope that Legolas is safe!" 

"I fear his life." Aragorn said bluntly, even as he revealed the brooch that had been dropped by hobbit hands. "Merry and Pippin may seek safety for a while, but there are stains of blood and torment that are witnesses to cruelty on the ground. The Orcs have been using Legolas for sport, as I feared. We must hasten forth."

Gimli stared at Aragorn. "When we reach them, my axe will be at work."

"And not just your weapon alone, son of Gloin."

* * *

Thranduil rubbed at his eyes, exhaustion drawing him to its soporific brink. His son! He saw Legolas, caught in a mire of darkness that even an Elf-lord would dread. It shattered the noble king's heart, to see his flesh and blood suffering alone and without aid. There was only fear in Legolas' voice and never before had the king seen his son so afraid.

It had been so close. He had almost caught his son, imparted to him the light that Legolas lost during his struggles. But then, something tore them apart and Thranduil heard his son crying out. Somehow, his fleet-footed offspring lost his footing and slipped.

The Elf king sighed and covered his face with his hands.

He would have to consult with Elrond, for the perils for his son were too much and his father's heart was broken. Never did he dream of the day when his son needed rescue and he was unable to give it.

Thranduil did not sleep that night.

Neither did the rest of Mirkwood.


	5. Screams in Dreams

Author's Note: Some of the dialogue is taken directly from The Two Towers and from the chapter, "The Uruk-Hai." This is also my longest chapter to date for this fanfic and my most harrowing yet. The torture, for readers begging me not to physically brutalize Legolas anymore is almost over. The merry-go-round is about to crash. ;;

Shadow Amongst the Leaves Chapter V

It had been three days since the breaking of the Fellowship and Aragorn slept not, but once, for even a Ranger grew tired during pursuit. His mind forced him to hasten his pace, for three lives lay at evil's mercy and he wished them not an ill end. While the finding of the elven brooch soothed his heart in concern of the Halflings, he fretted for the Elf. Although he told Gimli of his find, he kept the worst to his own heart. He feared that Legolas would not endure, for brutal was his torment and horrible was his plight. It echoed eerily of Elrond and his household, when the Elf-lord's wife, Celebrían fled to the Gray Havens, for she lost the will to live on Middle-Earth.

Even as Estel, he knew such matters and it was spoken of in secret amongst the Elves of Elrond's court. For a Silvan Elf to endure such treatment would break his spirit, much less his body.

Aragorn removed the silver-hafted knife from his belt and stared at it. The Elf fought bravely with them through Caradhras and Moria, only to fall captive on the slopes of Emyn Muil. Thranduil's son, taken by foul forces, bore away towards Isengard, towards the power and might of Saruman. It chilled the Ranger's heart and he closed his fingers around the delicately embossed hilt.

If the Elf still lived, there would only be darkness for his future.

Aragorn jammed the blade back into its sheath. "Gimli, let us go! Twelve leagues we have run and yet, we have much distance to cover! There is no time for rest tonight, nor shall we until we find news of our friends."

"Then let us go in this blackness!"

"Forward then! Deeper into Rohan!"

* * *

A horse galloped hard into the night away from Mirkwood's northern side. Thranduil, in front of his Elven guards, urged his steed onto the main road. The king feared the darkness would take his son and thrust him into a nightmare from whence there is no return. If that were to happen, Legolas would forever be gone from his kingdom and from his bloodline. 

He would lose to a child to death, like that of his wife.

Thranduil tugged roughly at the reins in his panic. "I cannot let him down," he swore, narrowing his eyes. "My youngest son; my most sensitive child. It is not a wonder that his name fits him well – for he lives with the trees and shares with their emotions. And now, he is in danger. I cannot let him slip into darkness."

Hooves pounded against the earth and soon faded into silence.

* * *

The Elf stirred, shivering in his rags and wondering when this accursed nightmare would cease. How long they traveled, or how many days past them by, he knew not. All of his awakenings and partings melded into pain and exhaustion and he slept when he could. He now knew what the Orcs had done to him; however, he dared not weep, for his foes thrived on agony and tears. He would not give them that, not when he still held pride in his heart. 

And yet, his suffering wracked his body and quenched his spirit. His body ached from the lashings of whips and leather thongs, and his back bled from the cruel bite of iron scorpions. Legolas watched the Orc camp through narrowed eyes, seeing fire and remembering nightmares of a burnt Lothlórien. He shuddered, only to find through his memories the figure of his father. It was so close – he felt his fingers; he could have grabbed him and never let go. But he slipped and awoke, awakening to fire upon his flesh and then falling into restless sleep.

"They'll wait for the Sun, curse them!" One of the nameless Orcs, a guard of the hobbits, stomped through the camp, muttering to himself. "Why don't we get together and charge through? What's old Uglúk think he's doing, I should like to know?"

Legolas turned his face towards the harsh voice. So the foul creatures spoke Westron, the Common Speech! Memories of speaking Westron to Aragorn and Gimli seemed so far away, and the Elf closed his eyes, musing. So bright and gay were his thoughts of Lothlórien, where he shared happiness with his companions. The Golden Wood, the Lady Galadriel and her husband, Celeborn the Wise. The moments shared with Gimli in talk, in camaraderie, and in rivalry. The other Elves considered him strange, but his joy at finding a friend banished all other voices. He wandered merrily through the trees, climbing ones with golden leaves and sitting by the majestic growths of _mallorn._ For once, he stayed amongst High Elves, different and yet, not strange from his lineage of Elven blood. The Lady Galadriel spoke fair words, which he treasured, and the gifting of weapons befitted their journey.

He felt a lack and lightness where his bow and quiver should have been.

They were stripped from him long ago.

An ugly snarl of words caught his attention and Legolas opened his eyes. "I daresay you would. Meaning I don't think at all, eh? Curse you! You're as bad as the other rabble: the maggots and the apes of Lugbúrz. No good trying to charge with them. They'd just squeal and bolt, and there are more than enough of these filthy horse-boys to mop up our lot on the flat. There's only one thing those maggots can do: they can see like gimlets in the dark. But these Whiteskins have better night-eyes than most Men, from all I've heard; and don't forget their horses! They can see the night-breeze, or so it's said. Still, there's one thing the fine fellows don't know: Mauhúr and his lads are in the forest, and they should turn up any time now."

Murmurs of dissent spread throughout the camp, although some of the brute and stronger Orcs nodded in agreement. Others lay down for rest, while some stayed awake as watchers. One of them glared at the Elf, and Legolas held his gaze. Soon, the Orc averted his eyes; they had had their sport earlier – most of the Orcs needed slumber and arousing them because of an Elf's defiance would put most in a dreadful mood. Legolas breathed a sigh of relief and glanced to his right. Pippin, awake and alert, stared out in the dark night.

"Pippin? Why are you awake? Should sleep be trivial for you?"

The hobbit answered back promptly, his voice tired. "I think you need more sleep, Legolas. I may be younger than Merry, but even Merry would tell you that."

"I have slept, but for some time," the Elf said. "It dulls the pain in my body and though my wounds are slow to heal, I seek comfort in unconsciousness. The Orcs' rough sporting and torment settles me into sleep with agony, and I welcome it."

Pippin turned, his eyes staring at Legolas. "Your father would be proud that you have withheld tears in pain. I cry too easily and even Merry teases me about it."

Legolas ran his fingers over his cheek, brushing past the ragged ends of his hair. His flesh felt rough, begrimed with dirt and blood; he was filthy and the Elf shuddered at this change. Pain flared as his finger pressed upon a fresh bruise and the prince let his bound hands fall to his lap. Even under his tattered garb, he could feel the poison of an untreated wound gnawing at his flesh – a slow and painful way to die. The Orcs had broken the arrow when they dragged him over rough ground and Legolas extracted the remaining shaft out afterwards, with much agony and bleeding. Merry's head wound received ointment, but the fell creatures in their spite refused to treat him.

Even if they insisted, the Elf would not let those hideous hands touch him even for treatment. They had touched and tortured him enough, and he dared not partake of their flasks and healing. Elves do not meddle with the sinister works of darker forces; Legolas would not abandon his principles for comfort.

"Pippin, although I cry not aloud, I weep within. I do so out of pride, not out of courage."

"But courage and pride go hand in hand, right?"

The Elf stared hollowly at the hobbit, his heart heavy. "Not all the time. As a prince, I have my father's pride running through my blood. It is often a burden and sometimes helpful, but it can go ill. The Orcs have reduced me to less than an Elf in some ways and for that, I mourn. But not for them to see."

Pippin mulled over Legolas' words, then suddenly sat up and spoke in a sharp tone. "Legolas, who is that?" The Halfling pointed yonder past the Orcs who kept their watch. The riders whom the Orcs spoke of were gone, and no outcry appeared over the hillock. The night was eerily silent and the moon shone not.

Legolas narrowed his eyes, gazing intently at where Pippin pointed. By the fires in the camp, he could distinguish a figure, stooped and leaning on a staff. A cloak rustled and whipped around in the chill wind and Legolas thought he glimpsed a wide-brimmed hat. His heart leapt and the Elf nearly cried out for Gandalf. However, as the Elf looked closer, he noticed white and he fell back in silence. Gandalf did not wear white; he was known as Mithrandir by the Elves, the 'Grey Pilgrim.'

Was this Saruman, by chance?

The figure conversed with the Orc captains and the Elf's heart faltered. Gandalf would not take counsel with evil; this was yet another cursed turn of fate. Then, the figure turned and Legolas saw cruel eyes and a wicked mouth nearly concealed by a white beard – the Elf cringed. It was doubtlessly Saruman, come to see his handiwork and the malice of his forces. Saruman swept his cloak aside, and stood straight, menacing and towering in the darkness above his Orcs.

"I thought I commanded you to destroy _all_ but the Halflings!"

Grishnákh snarled. "The Elf is for our sport! You can turn him over into darkness, master. That's what we have kept him alive for."

Legolas shuddered and tugged viciously at the ropes bound around his scarred wrists. Saruman! What evil did the wizard intend for him? The Elf fought against the burning bite of the twisted cords; blood seeped out of fresh wounds. Pippin laid a hand on him and Legolas looked hard at the Halfling.

"Legolas, who is that?"

"Saruman! He intends evil purposes for me, which I desire not!" The Elf snapped, ignoring the pain of his struggles. "Is there not some way of escape, for the darkest hour now lays it hand upon me and I cannot flee this blackness! Look, for there he comes!"

The wizard crossed over the trampled region of grassy sward, his eyes piercing through the captives. Dark were his eyes and cold was his spirit, for it chilled Legolas' heart and Pippin stirred in agitation beside him. "What is this – an Elf and two Halflings? One is asleep and the other is awake. And this one – is he even an Elf?"

The Orcs laughed, seeing amusement in their master's words.

Legolas stirred, drawing himself straight even in pain. "Saruman, the craven and betrayer of Gandalf the Grey, whom we call Mithrandir. Were it not for the treason of Isengard, Sauron would not hold strong forces against Middle-earth! Even in death, Mithrandir is wiser than one who turns to folly!"

Saruman's eyes burned with flame and the wizard spoke with a voice that cut like fell blades upon innocent flesh. "You still believe yourself strong, Elf? Then you are the fool, not I."

"No, for I am not in the wrong. 'Tis you that are disillusioned, Saruman."

"You will regret your high words, Elf."

* * *

"Gimli, do you sense evil arising in the far lands?" 

"It is still dark and you ask me of what I sense?" The Dwarf grumbled, plodding along. "I sense nothing but the coldness of the wind and the grass and stones beneath my feet."

Aragorn peered hard into the night. There was evil in the North and the Ranger was troubled. "Alas, for I fear the darkness in my heart. Tonight, they will not sleep in peace."

* * *

Legolas gazed upwards at Saruman, shadows crowding around his soul. Those black eyes pierced through him, ablaze with fury and fire, and the prince could not help but shiver in fear. He had spoken aloud, thrown words at the wizard with reckless pride and abandon. Did he believe he could survive the wizard's wrath? 

"So, you see yourself as strong. Does this tell you anything?"

The Elf suddenly fell to the ground, clutching at his chest. Legolas winced in shock, for he felt Saruman's darkness entering into his being, seizing for whatever light still remained in his spirit. The Elf closed his eyes, fighting against that invasion, against that violation of his soul – he closed his heart against that fell wave of brute strength and felt the repelled fingers surging back for another assault.

The darkness raked at his Elvish light and Legolas screamed in agony.

"Legolas!" Pippin shouted, only to be held down by an Orcish blade.

Thranduil. His father – his last vision of hope. His brothers, Mirkwood, and the trees. He wanted to return home, a prince received back in welcome and fatherly arms. The Lady Galadriel and the Galadhrim – times of joy and contemplation, of rest and friendship. All so far behind, and yet, not. No – Saruman would not remove these from him; never would the Elf give them to an enemy.

_"No!"_ Legolas cried out, his voice reaching to the sky. "You will not have me broken, Saruman!"

At these words, Saruman staggered back, his concentration shattered. Legolas opened his eyes, his breath coming in swift gasps. So much pain and yet, he had defeated the wizard's intentions. Saruman towered over him, shock, then anger overtaking his face. The twisted rage in his visage was so black that it seemed to bolt out the sky, eliminating night with such fury. His words slid out, grating and menacing, full of venom.

"Such strength for a battered Elf. The Elves of Rivendell have chosen well, it seems. And yet, you will not recognize yourself, nor will they remember you. Do you know how Orcs came to be, impudent creature?"

Legolas kept his silence.

"Orcs were created from Elves. Morgoth, or shall I say, Melkor in your tongue, held Elves captive and through torture, twisted them into fell beings known as Orcs."

"You lie!" The prince cried out, shocked. "That cannot be!"

"And yet it is true, fool! You slew your own kindred, believing yourself righteous! See now if you will wield blade or bow against Orcs, for they are of your blood! If you raise a hand against them, you are condemning yourself, hypocrite! Elves believe themselves clean, and yet they stain their weapons with the blood of their friends and mates – as you have!"

Despair and doubt plunged into Legolas' heart and the Elf wavered. "I…am guilty? I have slain…my own people?" Tears blinded him and the Elf dashed them aside, unwilling to show weakness. "In defending myself, I have slaughtered innocents? Then what am I?"

Saruman smiled and Legolas in his tears saw not the cruel coldness of the expression. "You will see yourself as an Orc in your weakness, if your spirit or will should falter and fail, my dear Elf. Your companions and friends shall see such, and in their folly, will seek your destruction. It is my gift and curse to you, for since you give me trouble in turning you over to darkness, I shall give you torment through a different way. You will abhor your existence and should your friends despise you, it would be best to destroy yourself.

"And yet, you have in your struggle, drained me of my strength. It will take me many an hour and day to recover myself to full potency and that is unheard of even for an Istar. The will of an Elf has never challenged a wizard before. For that, you will taste the bitterness of my vengeance."

Legolas blinked, raw fear harsh and dry in his mouth. "You have already doomed me. What more do you seek?"

"Since you are to be as an Orc in times of weakness, should it not be so that you will share bonds with these creatures? They were once Elves, if you steel yourself against the unpleasantness."

The Elf paled; Legolas felt sweat rolling down his face. "No!"

"Legolas!" Pippin wailed, reaching out to the Elf. "Legolas!"

Saruman beckoned to the Orcs, even as Legolas hastened to back away. His bonds hampered him and the prince looked around wildly, fear spreading throughout his being and severing calmness from reason. Grisly arms grabbed him and stood him upon his feet and he lurched forward, his body weak. It was as if he were apart from his flesh, away from this torment.

He wanted to scream, to run, and to die.

"Use him well. Let the Elf see what kin he is bound to."

* * *

A cry of torment tore through the Elven king's mind. Thranduil, seeking rest during the journey to Rivendell, found himself caught in a horrendous nightmare. The trees were stripped and dark crimson leaked amongst broken stones like rivulets of tears in a shattered face. Screams of anguish echoed from the ravaged forests, wailing for revenge and Thranduil wandered the barren lands, horror filling him. Were his lands gone, taken by the forces of the Dark Lord? Were his sons slain, victims to the wickedness of Sauron? 

Struck numb by what he saw, the king stood there. So much destruction, so much agony, and so much failure. The forests, bare of their glory, thrust branches into the dreary sky like beseeching fingers asking for forgiveness. But what was there to forgive? Thranduil staggered back, seeing for the first time what his son's nightmares could have been like. Then, as he allowed himself to realize the darkness of his dream, the king felt awareness flowing into his veins like new wine.

Legolas dreamt even now, and he had crossed into his son's mind.

"Legolas!" Thranduil cried out, knowing in his heart that somewhere in this marred and terrible world, his son lived in anguish and doubt. He found his child the last time, but it had been too short and Legolas had left to suffer alone. As a father and a widow, the Elf-king swore that this would not happen again. If he could not find Legolas this time, he would not leave until he did. "Legolas!"

A cry responded to his desperate call and Thranduil turned, racing towards the sound of that pitiful voice. It was broken and utterly despondent, unlike that of his light-hearted son, who liked to walk amongst the trees and often used his soft voice to sing beautiful songs in Sindarin. But some instinct told the king that whatever songs his child used to sing, all of those had now fallen into disarray.

Would Legolas still sing after all of this?

_"Help me!"_ The scream grew closer, and Thranduil, ignoring the sudden appearance of briar thorns in his path, struck them aside. Blood welled in the wounds inflicted on his hands but the king ignored them; he felt no pain. All of Legolas' painful memories were now manifesting in these terrible forms, horrid by Elven standards. Before this, his youngest child dreamt about stars at night and running through trees in pale sunlight.

Now, destruction and agony were his images.

Thranduil, nearly breathless, burst into a blood-drenched clearing and then stood still with shock. In the center of the field knelt his son, pale and nearly lifeless. His wrists were raw, crimson streaks grotesque against the white flesh. Blood striped his back, where whips ruthlessly carved out his lifeblood and Legolas' body was dark with bruises. The garb that he wore out of Mirkwood now lay in shredded tatters around his nearly naked form; his weapons were gone, doubtlessly taken from him by his enemies. Even more frightening was the deadness in the Elf's eyes – it was as if Legolas had already bid farewell to life. The ragged edges of his fair hair settled against his hollowed cheekbones; Thranduil wanted to weep at what had been done to his son.

As he approached, he noticed the young prince did not even move to meet his gaze. Legolas knelt there like a statue, like someone frozen by fate and time. It was as if the Elf dared not breathe, so strong was his fear. Kneeling down, Thranduil gazed into his son's eyes, hoping for recognition.

But there was nothing.

"Legolas," he whispered, sliding his hand along the young Elf's face. "Please, my child, come back to me. I cannot bear to see you like this, even in your dreams. I met you once, but ill will tore us apart. Forgive me, Legolas – I will not forsake you this time."

If those were the words needed, the prince heard them. Legolas turned his face towards his father, his eyes suddenly filled with tears. "Father? Is that you?" Reaching out, the Elf crumpled in his weakness and Thranduil was swift in catching his son, cradling him like an infant. "Father, you found me. I thought I would never find hope again. Every time I try, it is always seized from me and denied."

"Legolas, I will never forsake you. I did not deny you your tears when your mother died, and I will not hold my love away from you when you need it. Not now, in your time of suffering."

White points of light shone on the younger Elf's face; Thranduil wept.

Suddenly, Legolas released a tormented cry of agony, writhing in the older Elf's arms. Blood quickly soaked through Thranduil's tunic and the father held his son closer. "They are hurting me still," Legolas wailed as pain became apparent and the young prince came close to losing consciousness. "They…are using me…commands from Saruman. I…am no longer…myself…help me, Father!"

Thranduil held tight to his son, keeping Legolas close to him. "I will not leave, Legolas. I have already promised that to myself. I will not break it."

And so it was, that Thranduil, the Elven king of Northern Mirkwood, stayed close to his son in his dreams, even when he departed later that night with his guards towards Rivendell. For Elvish dreams are more than just images and the father comforted the son until torment passed and Legolas slept. Even then, Thranduil lingered close, for a promise made to a suffering child is a vow kept.

Thus, life, love, and light were imparted to Legolas, the son of the king.


	6. Love in Despair, Hope in Fraility

Author's Comment: Merry-go-round crashes, but then we have to pick up the pieces…

Shadow Amongst the Leaves Chapter VI 

Darkness hid wickedness and brought forth blacker evils, and Legolas did not know when he fell into unconsciousness away from pain; he welcomed it, though, for his situation was dire and he wished not to live. Since the day at Emyn Muil, when the Fellowship split, it had been three days and the Elf felt his burdens increase even as his life dwindled and faded. Were it not for his memories of a happier time, the prince would have severed his ties with Middle-earth, leaving all behind, including his father.

But was it not strange that in his nightmare, when he found himself alone and nearly forsaking life that it was his father who embraced and comforted him? Legolas, already dead to himself and nursing no thoughts about living, paid no attention to his surroundings. Thranduil, his one link left to home and to joyous days – even he, the prince did not recognize. If he did, Legolas chose not to. Something, during those three days and nights, hardened in his heart and built walls around his soul.

He had lost much, and nothing he did could ever bring his losses back.

So it was when the older Elf found him, kneeling in blood. Crimson, drenching the sodden grass and filling his nightmares with its violent shade, was the only colour he knew now. The pale gold of sunlight and the verdant leaves of the forest were no more; he no longer remembered them. If he did, he only kept some of Lothlórien close to his heart, keeping it jealously for himself. His companion, Aragorn, had not come and Legolas despaired of him, wondering what delayed his steps.

Not that it mattered any, the Elf thought. Even when found, he would no longer be as he once was before.

Melancholy settled upon Legolas and he considered dying at that moment. What could be more tolerable than death, he questioned, unmoving and as still as stone. He was bound to Arda – what more could he expect of a cruel and inhospitable world? Once, many months ago, he spoke with Gandalf at Caradhras, resulting in jests of Elves finding the sun so that snow could be melted. Legolas recalled, faintly, his own jest that Elves were meant for running across the hostile plains of white.

All of that seemed so far away now, and even he had changed.

Just as he made his decision, about to leave his wretched life behind, a warm hand dripping blood slid across his cheek. The warmth of this unknown hand startled Legolas, and it took all of his willpower to prevent movement. Who was touching him? The young Elf felt the hand, gentle and patient, stroking his face and some of the walls around his soul crumbled. He was not fit to be seen, or to be touched. He was no longer an Elf, if compared to others who remained unscathed. Whoever saw fit to approach him and to touch him had to be blind.

Legolas no longer loved himself.

That was when words took form – words of beseeching, asking for forgiveness and response. "Legolas," a voice said, near tears. "Please, my child, come back to me. I cannot bear to see you like this, even in your dreams. I met you once, but ill will tore us apart. Forgive me, Legolas – I will not forsake you this time."

Something familiar in that voice, in those words brought Legolas out of his isolation. Could it be? Could it be his father, Thranduil? But how did he find him again after that last ill chance? Afraid, Legolas turned, only to see the loving eyes of his father fixed upon him. There was blood on one of his hands; how he came about to be wounded, the prince did not know. All of his defenses shattered in that moment, broken by those words and all of his repressions, fear, and guilt overwhelmed him in that second.

"Father? Is that you?"

Four simple words, asking for the truth. And yet, that was all that he needed to say. Weeping, he reached out for his father, only to find himself faltering. Thranduil caught him, gently, and Legolas settled into his father's arms, vulnerability protected by strength.

The Elf cried then, allowing himself the tears he did not shed in front of his enemies. For too long did he believe himself abandoned, only to find himself deceived. There was someone who still loved and accepted him, despite the way he was now. Grief and joy mingled and Legolas spoke. "Father, you found me. I thought I would never find hope again. Every time I try, it is always seized from me and denied." Like the chance dashed to pieces in his last dream, when he failed to reach his father.

How many more failures would he experience before his agonies were over?

Words of comfort and hope reassured him, soothing his weary mind and aching heart. His father would not forsake him. Never, even if he were to return – if he returned home – to Mirkwood and all the Elves disdained him. Even if his two brothers saw ill of him, his father would respect him; there would be no change. Light, long held back from him by darkness, now entered his being and Legolas felt some of his old self returning.

But he would never be able to be truly Elven again.

As if his mind spoke true, a sudden agony seized his body, tearing his soul and flinging it into darkness. Intense pain flooded his being and Legolas found himself clinging to his father, crying out even as black thoughts sought to poison his mind and corrupt his spirit. They were breaking him and they were succeeding. Fear and shame filled his blood and the prince could not keep his silence. Thranduil held tightly onto him, his arms reassuring as the violence increased and Legolas fought back, only to find himself wailing in pain for his troubles. Did his anguish mean nothing? Why did he have to be further defiled? Darkness hazed his mind and the Elf wavered, grappling between consciousness and unconsciousness. Out of his screams, he heard a plea for his father to help him, for the fight was too much for him and Legolas was weary and torn by his struggles.

"I will not leave, Legolas. I have already promised that to myself. I will not break it."

Light in his darkness – was there a way out when lost?

* * *

Aragorn raced up the sloping hills, unsure of his footing in the dark. A Ranger had more experience than most men in such situations, but without Elven sight, walking at night was treacherous. He would have rested, if it were not for the keening cry of darkness in his heart. Something had gone amiss tonight, beneath the black sky, and Aragorn felt his premonitions concerning Legolas coming to light.

He had been too slow to come to his aid, for even now, the Elf suffered.

Stiffening at this, the Ranger turned to look at Gimli. His companion had tried his best to match his pace with that of his own, but exhaustion had set in and now the Dwarf swayed as one close to sleep. Pity surged through Aragorn and he laid his hand upon Gimli's shoulder. If there was anyone who suffered from the Elf's absence, it was the Dwarf, for Legolas and he were bonded in Lothlórien and the shock of the Elf's capture had sapped much strength from Gloin's descendant. The fire of rage that formerly seized Gimli was now spent, utterly lost in the numbing flow of time and weariness. Only sleep could rekindle those flames again.

"Sleep, Gimli. It would do Legolas no good should you stumble."

As Gimli lay down and rested, Aragorn glanced uneasily at the sky. Would it that dawn would soon overtake them and lend them her aid in this pursuit! For this was the third night and yet, besides a few tokens, there were no signs of their companions. How the Halflings were, Isildur's heir did not know and fear for the Elf swept through his being. Since Legolas' capture, their company of two found it dull in their chase, for Thranduil's son knew when to jest and when to sing. Without him, conversation was lackluster and darkness seemed to draw its cloak around them.

He missed the Elf.

Raised in an Elvish household, with Elrond as his father during his childhood, Aragorn grew up amongst the fair folk. Tragic but beautiful were their songs, and Legolas' song of Nimrodel stirred remembrances of the past. Elves were destined for many paths in life, but bringing joy, song, and sadness to living seemed to be their gift.

It was also Legolas' gift, for he was beautiful and melancholy, wistful and sensitive, mature and childish. Although the hobbits were childlike in their simple way, the Elf represented serenity and youthfulness in his own way. Legolas was one of those youthful Elves, almost forgotten, in a time filled with waning hearts and bitter minds. There were very few of those kinds left.

There would soon be one less, and for that, Aragorn grieved.

* * *

Voices, sounds of screaming and warfare, and oaths muttered in vain raised the camp in a din. Legolas awoke, pain searing through his body and he thought he still dreamt. His wrists, he found, were no longer bound – someone had cut them – and an elven cloak thrown over him served to hide his nakedness. As the screams of dying and savagery rose and fell around him, the Elf grew aware of what was happening.

The Orc camp was under attack!

Orcs fell, slain by grey-feathered arrows shot from men on horseback. Swords gleamed in the cruel light of the campfires and one of the captains fell, slaughtered by a clever blow directed underneath armor. Black and scarlet blood flowed as Men and Orcs battled to the death. Three of the Riders fell beneath a savage mob of Orcs that sought escape into the woods and spears stabbed back in return from retaliating horsemen for their slain companions. Corpses littered the now bloodied plain and Legolas watched in silence.

Was this his chance of escape? Were the Riders good or evil?

Another Orc fell to a well-aimed shaft from an archer's bow and Legolas suddenly longed to feel his own weapon in his hands. And yet! The Elf remembered Saruman's words, speaking of the lore of the Orcs and his desire soon left him. To commit atrocities against fell creatures that used to live the lives of Elves! Could he deal death to his own people, as twisted as they were now? Hatred and guilt battled in his mind and the prince could not choose. The Orcs cruelly abused him, turning him into a shadow of what he once was. He should revile them!

And yet, they were Elves once. To slay a race that had no choices during their torture would make him a murderer, shedding blood with guilty hands. Even if they beat him and enslaved him to their black desires; what could he do about it? What if the Istar was right and he was already fallen?

Legolas could not decide; he was torn.

Westron flowed out from amongst the Riders and they separated, each collecting broken helms and swords from the clearing. Fires burned and the Elf saw that they were burning the Orcs, setting afire the creatures that they had fought and killed. Images of a destroyed Lothlórien swamped his mind and Legolas tore his eyes from the flames, shaking in distress. What could he do? He dared not lay bow or knife against the fell creatures now and his nightmares plagued him even during the day or night when he slept not.

And where were Merry and Pippin?

The hobbits were nowhere to be found. Legolas scanned the region, wild thoughts running amuck. What if they were slain or taken into the woods? He felt at the silken cloth of the elven cloak thrown around his body and realization struck him. Merry and Pippin had fled! Who else would cut his bonds, releasing his hands? Looking down, the Elf found a packet of _lembas _at his side. Picking it up, the prince glanced around.

Wherever those Halflings were, they deserved his thanks.

Just then, a sword lingered in front of his face and Legolas gazed upwards into a stern face framed by a helm. White hair flowed from the helm like a horse's tail, giving the man a very regal appearance. His eyes were curious and cold. "Speak your name. Who are you and why are you here?"

"Is it not apparent? I am a prisoner of these Orcs."

"What are you, then? You are no Orc. And you are not a Man."

Legolas nodded. "I am an Elf, son of the king of Mirkwood. And what is your name, may I ask?"

"Éomer, the son of Éomund of Rohan."


	7. Questions Asked, Answers Lost

Shadow Amongst the Leaves Chapter VII 

Rivendell loomed ahead; the Elven city gleaming on the dappled cliffs like a star amidst flowers. Thranduil hastened his horse forward, even when the beauty of the legendary Imladris swept through him like the way the sea calls to the Teleri. In the first light of dawn, the delicate structures of the immense yet graceful abode seemed itself an exotic blossom – the work of Elven smiths. Never in Thranduil's life had he seen such beauty, for long had he stayed in his kingdom of Northern Mirkwood. There, it was merry and bright until threatened by the forces from Dol Guldur and even with the trees and sunlight, nothing surpassed Elrond's dwelling in craft or skill.

It was here where the Fellowship formed and departed. Legolas, his youngest son, went only as a messenger, never guessing that fate would choose him as part of a perilous journey. Thranduil remembered his surprise and concern when Elrond's messengers returned, bearing news of his son's status. The Elven king had not expected such and could only wish for Legolas' safe return.

But that was not to be, for darkness had claimed his son.

Thranduil rode past the gates and dismounted, handing the reins to one of his Elven guards. "You know where to take him," he said, bestowing his trust upon the younger Elf. The guard nodded, then spoke a fair word to the beast and led it away towards the stables. This guard was the same one who accompanied Legolas to Imladris – so did the king trust in his subjects. As Thranduil entered into Imladris, he noticed the curious eyes of Elves keeping watch on him, for he had come without notice and without warning. A tall and stately Elf, clad in light blue, met him as he approached the stairs about to cross the threshold.

"What is it that you seek, or whom do you desire to speak to?"

"Is your lord Elrond at home? Thranduil of Northern Mirkwood seeks his audience."

The Elf bowed. "He is, my lord and I will speak to him." Turning with the grace bestowed to her race, the Elf walked down the hall. The Elven king noticed her light steps and the elegant way she held herself; once was his son. Would Legolas still hold himself proud and noble, with a tread that left no print on grass or earth?

The memory of embracing his tormented child haunted his mind and Thranduil fell back against a pillar in anguish. Terrible were the wounds on Legolas and dark were his dreams, more shadows of death than wraiths of doubt. The lack of expression on the younger Elf's face was chilling, for it was as if an abyss threatened to devour him and the prince noticed not, nor stirred to battle his impending death. If Thranduil had known that Legolas came close to falling into death's shadow by choice, the king's agony would have been complete.

Never had he lost a child born by his wife.

A soft voice, majestic with authority, awoke Thranduil out of his musing and the king turned to face his friend and ally. "Thranduil, it has been a long time since our last meeting. Your arrival here has not reached our attention and has thereby aroused our fair court."

"My pardons, friend. I came not to disturb your court, but to speak with you. My mind is troubled, for my son has been seized by darkness and it has been a difficult struggle."

At this, Elrond gazed sharply at Thranduil. "Your son? You speak then of Legolas, your youngest?" Doubt lurked deep in the Half-elf's eyes and the lord of Imladris spoke anew. "How came you by this knowledge? Your son is in distant lands, beyond our reach. We did not send messengers to those lands, unless one of your court decided his own path and found your son."

"I found my son through his dreams. Legolas oft dreams, even in morning and the quiet wake of noon. I slept one night, when the sky was fair, and a cry arose from within my being. It startled me to awakening and as it continued, I found out with horror that it was Legolas calling for me. His cries were dark and full of anguish; it took me more than a night before I found him. On the first, I saw not yet his wounds, for his mind was still strong. Yet, he was desperate and lost and I felt his terror. I reached out for him, imploring for his trust and when he could have succeeded, darkness tore us apart.

"I continued my search, knowing now his plight and unwilling to surrender the battle while he still held breath. I found myself one night, on route to Imladris, in his dreams – more nightmare than pleasant tidings. The forests he once dreamt of were ravaged and blood stained his mind, blotting out sunlight and song. His screams fell upon my shocked soul and I ran, desperate to find him in this mockery of Elvish dreams. I found him, alas, in a bloodied field and he recognized me not. Wounds ravaged his body and he seemed dead to all. Were it not for my touch upon his face, he would have knelt there, unconscious to my presence."

Thranduil paused, his voice thickening, for the Elf felt himself close to tears. When he spoke again, sadness touched his words with a pale shade of grief. "I brought him back, out of this brink of darkness that he alone could no longer flee or fight against. He fell against me, exhausted and in tears, wondering how I had found him. My son! My fair son, reduced to this shadow, this weary and fallen being! Darkness had treated him cruelly and he had lost much of his lightheartedness – how I dread to face him should he return! As if evil would not release him, a new torment arose, tearing shrieks of agony from his throat and he clung to me even as his torture persisted. He cried out words that horrified me and I held him tighter, for his agonies were also mine. Long was his torment and he did not sleep until pain had passed. I have not left him yet, for even now he dreams."

Elrond stared at the Elf king, his eyes wide with horror. "And yet, it repeats itself again. Your news smote me full in the heart, for your agony is also mine. My wife departed for the Havens because of torment at the hands of Orcs, foul creatures that removed my beloved from my side. Your son, doubtlessly, suffers from their cruelty and yet, he cannot flee."

"Why is that?"

"Your son belongs to the bloodline of the Teleri, as I believe you know. He cannot flee until the call of Sea beckons him, and he is still young. So, he must stay in Middle-earth until his longing for Valinor is awakened."

"But that will bring forth despair in his life! Could he not find healing in your residence, Elrond? I am speaking to you as royalty to royalty and as friend to friend. I wish not to see my child in distress, ere he departs over the sea! Your hands are of healing to flesh and spirit, are they not?"

The Elf-lord nodded slightly, but when he turned to the corridor leading to the great hall, Thranduil sensed falseness in his gesture. "Follow me, Thranduil. We have much to speak of and standing idly by the threshold is not regal to two lords. We shall partake of some wine to clear our troubled minds and then again shall we speak, for your distress deserves company and I long have grieved for my own loss. For in this time of darkness and shadow, we should seek counsel, not division."

* * *

"An Elf taken prisoner by Orcs? I am surprised he is not dead!"

"Hold your tongue, Éothain!" Éomer snapped, chastising the outspoken Rider. "Although we know not of this prisoner, he declares himself a prince! Do you desire your words to fall ill on a noble mind? He is alive but he suffers and we know not how to treat him! Hold your peace and let me think!"

Legolas glanced at the Rider, appraising his speech in his mind. Here was yet another man born to leadership. He had wisdom in his words and wielded a sword of authority in his hand. Although the other Riders considered him strange, Éomer treated him as one would treat a captive of the Orcs. Almost immediately, the man sheathed his sword and offered him his hand but Legolas shook his head; he could not walk in his pain and his breathing was shallow from previous beatings. Éomer's grey eyes had softened and the Rider asked if he could carry him then, at least towards the banks of the Entwash. Caution and wariness grew in the Elven prince's mind, but he eventually relented. The Rider's hands were gentle and as Legolas felt him being borne towards the river, he remembered Thranduil's embrace and the prince let slip a silent tear.

Were that all Men were like this!

Even now, as he heard Éomer silencing the more uncouth of his soldiers, Legolas remembered the firm gentleness of Aragorn towards the hobbits. Two of their kind and both alike and as noble and fair as legend! The coldness of river-water on his flesh reminded the Elf of his task at hand, and he turned to the Entwash in a hurry. Éomer had placed him close to the banks, enough so that Legolas could reach the water and had left to his possession a cloth. It was readily apparent what the Rider wanted him to do.

"Clean yourself off and I will arrange for clothes to be brought to you."

He had grasped the man's hand, almost in tears. "You have a kind heart."

"I have seen many slain by Orcs and to find one taken and still alive is a blessing in this dark age. Hurry if you can, for the Riders of Rohan are often impatient and mistrustful of strangers. I will convince them of your harmlessness, for then they can rest in peace and trouble you no further."

Legolas winced as he brushed upon an old wound, the pain removing his mind from Éomer's kind words. The river flowed fast beneath him and the Elf soon found his fair flesh beneath the filth of abuse and travel. Yet, the prince felt his heart sinking, for his fairness was marred and his healing was slow. Where the Orcs bruised him, the paleness of his flesh was grey and sickly and his wounds still bled from being reopened by repeated sport. The cloth soon grew black with blood and earth and Legolas wrung it clean, his hands frozen by the chill waters of the Entwash.

His reflection in the moving water came to haunt him; for Legolas remembered his fairness ere he parted for Rivendell and what he now saw shattered him. Much had changed in his eyes and the innocence in them was no more; rather, gloom dwelled deep in his expression and he felt as if a shadow had claimed his visage. Bright and clear they once were – alas, for now they had fled into melancholy and guilt! If they could reclaim their light, Legolas knew not, for his spirit knew nothing of redemption after darkness. His face had grown gaunt, through misery and turmoil, and he abhorred it. He brought a trembling hand towards his shorn hair, feeling the severed strands even as his heart cried out to cease this internal torment.

Much had changed; was he still an Elf?

Could he walk again in light, abandoning shadows and nightmares?

He could find no answers and clinging onto the mere fringes of questions and hope, Legolas sought for an open road. He sought for a path to lead his lost feet, to guide him back to the forests and to sunlight and to songs. But how could he find it, when he himself had no direction?

Legolas wept, in his fury and anguish.

* * *

"My son went only as a messenger, Elrond. For what purpose did you send him on this journey?"

Elrond turned his dark head and gazed at Thranduil, his eyes speaking for him. "Your son, Thranduil, is one of the only Elves that has not been touched by grief and by the Sea before his parting. We dared not send one of the Elf-lords, for they may arouse Mordor's might, as was in the time during the First and Second Age."

"Legolas now lives in grief and darkness, my friend. Melkor sought our destruction, but did not succeed because of our many Elf-lords. Does the sacrifice of a Silvan Elf save the households of the Noldor?" A chalice slid across stone and Thranduil leaned forward. "If this is your reason, then it is a selfish one."

"I did not send your son to death and destruction willingly, Thranduil. Rather, it was necessary to send others with the Ringbearer, who bears a greater burden. We needed a representative for our people and your son, being royalty and being a warrior, served our purpose."

The Elf king sat back in his seat, his sudden anger draining from him. "So it was not by prejudice, then, that you sent a Sindar Elf instead of a Noldo? You decided the matter because of preference?"

"I knew your son since news of his conception in this age, my friend. He is a child that would be envied by many for his joy and his maturity. Yet, he lives in youthfulness and that is rare amongst Elves these days. Long have Elves lived on Middle-earth and many now flee for the Havens. He stays willingly and that is a blessing."

"He will not want to stay after all of this. I have seen him, Elrond. He is not himself and will not be for years to come."

Elrond bowed his head, his raven hair framing his face. There was much stress on his fair features and Thranduil wondered if the Elf-lord worried over his wife. Legolas' plight was similar, yet he could not take flight for shelter like that of Celebrían, who was a Noldo in blood. Then what was his son to do, should he return? "Elrond, will you take him in for some time? Mirkwood will not heal his wounds or his heart. I fear his reception should he come back."

"You fear more than that, dear king. You fear your own reaction to his change."

The Elf king of Mirkwood sighed, for that was the truth. "I fear what I will see in his eyes. He has lost much of his innocence and light – things that are intangible, but difficult to retrieve once lost. Legolas no longer sees any hope, I believe. And yet, I did give him everything that I could give – love, hope, light, and warmth. He has lacked these for so long, and it has greatly wounded him."

"And you must give him more, Thranduil. He is now vulnerable to his fears and should he suffer guilt, it would be terrible to abandon him to his own struggles."

"I will not leave him in his darkness, Elrond, for even now, I am with him."

"Will he ride a horse with us, Éomer?"

Legolas gazed at the man who spoke, and decided to answer in turn of their captain. "No, for my captors have treated me unmercifully and I cannot sit a mount without pain."

"The Elf answers swiftly, captain," one of the Riders said, acknowledging his reply. "Should we let someone else carry him then on a separate horse?"

Éomer shook his fair head. "It would be unwise. Legolas, do you wish to share a mount with one of my soldiers? I do not wish to insult you or leave you behind. What do you say?"

The Elven prince decided the latter of the two, for riding a horse was unthinkable in his condition and he did not wish to incur the Rider's displeasure. As much as Legolas disliked pity and aid – for his father's blood ran through his veins – he found himself agreeing with Éomer's counsel. "I will ride with one of your men. Much thanks to you, Éomer of Rohan." He remembered the help given to him by the Entwash and the gift of clothes to hide his nakedness. "You should be blessed for your kindness."

"You speak sweetly, even in your pain."

"I am a prince. It is in my bearing, even as a prisoner."

"And captive you are no more." The Rider smiled, the light reaching his grey eyes. "We shall now depart for the plains of Rohan. Will you accompany us in this, Legolas?"

The Elf nodded, his spirit complying with this change of events. "I will. Lead your men on, Rider of Rohan."

"Forward, Riders! Towards the plains, for the King of the Mark awaits our arrival and our report!"


	8. By Chance We Meet Again

Author's Comments: In response to some people's questions about the hobbits, they will be fine. If you read The Two Towers, you'll find out. I'm just not going to do their perspective, because nothing on their side will change. As for Éomer, he is the leader of a group of men on horseback called the Riders of Rohan. He and his men patrol the plains of Rohan – he also from the second book in the trilogy. And as for Legolas' suffering – it turned out that way; I don't know where the story is taking me – it's always a nice surprise! ;; For his hair – well, my brother's grows back in two to three weeks, so I'll take things realistically here.

BTW…some of the dialogue comes from the chapter, 'The Riders of Rohan.' And, I feel like I'm losing my style a tad – it's very hard to stay so consistent in Archaic English. Does Legolas still seem strong to you guys/gals or is he turning into a wimp? (I need to know this, because the Elf should not lose his masculinity even in trauma.)

Well…enjoy and sorry for the rant! .

Shadows Amongst the Leaves Chapter VIII 

It was already the fourth day since the breaking of the Fellowship at Emyn Muil, and Aragorn and Gimli continued their pursuit. From night they passed into the early rose of dawn and from exhaustion they passed into the rigorous steps of vigor, for such is the way of companions when seeking the lost. The early dew of morning clung to Aragorn and refreshed him, for little did he sleep the night before, even when Gimli slept. As darkness relinquished her cloak, the Ranger felt sorrow in his heart; had he failed his friends? Were they already beyond help, beyond hope, or beyond life? Was this pursuit all for nothing?

This, Aragorn said not to the Dwarf, for fear of failure doubtlessly dwelt deep in Gimli's heart as well and to bring forth injury upon injury was not his intent. In a dour time like this, he did not want to be the one to bring about division. Standing next to him, his axe sturdy on the ground, Gimli swept the Wold of Rohan with his eyes, only to grunt in dissatisfaction.

"Long have we traveled, my friend. And yet, the trail grows cold."

"We have not yet looked far enough, Gimli," Aragorn said, even as he saw the dark fringes of Fangorn and the Methedras glinting in the tranquil sun. "See how the trail leads from these downs down towards the Entwash? They have crossed this place yesterday and where they may be now is for us to find out. Do not trouble your heart, friend." As Gimli grunted again, as if countering Aragorn's counsel, Isildur's heir resumed his watch. There were shadowy shapes in the distance, coming from Fangorn and at a swift pace.

Aragorn immediately lowered himself to the ground, to see if he could hear rumours of the earth. Hooves galloping upon grass, quick in their flight – these were not Orcs. He had once ridden with the Riders of Rohan – could these be the very same? "Riders!" he said aloud, to the startled Gimli as he hastened to his feet. "Many riders on swift steeds are coming towards us!"

"And what shall we do about it, Aragorn? Shall we wait for them here or go on our way?"

"We will wait. I am weary, and our hunt has failed. Or at least others were before us; for these horsemen are riding back down the orc-trail. We may get news from them."

Gimli muttered darkly to himself. "Or spears."

"The foul creatures of Saruman and the dark forces of Mordor are more ruthless than mere Riders, Gimli son of Gloin. You may find yourself grateful for soldiers in times like this, for they battle to keep our lands free from Sauron's scourge. Although we may be strangers on their land, most Men still speak fair."

"You speak as one who knows his own race well, even when there is talk of some turning to Sauron for allegiance."

"They do so because they see no other way of strength. For that, they deserve pity." The Ranger bowed his head in thought, and then turned his glance on the Dwarf. "Let us move from this hill, lest we make ourselves an easy target for the Riders. The Riders of Rohan are not cruel, but they are suspicious in times like this and we should not tempt our fate by standing ill on their ground. Come, let us go towards the northwards slope, where we shall await them."

The two companions strode down the hill-top, the thinning breeze fluttering at the ends of their elven cloaks. Yet, cold they felt not and the Ranger and the Dwarf soon sat at the hill's foot, watching as the horsemen approached. Time slipped by them and Aragorn watched keenly as the Riders approached. Long had it been since he had ridden with them, and how much time had passed ere the waxing and waning of many moons! Beside him, Gimli fell silent, although his brow was furrowed with worry and Aragorn grasped a hold of his shoulder and shook him. "Worry not. I do not feel any darkness in my blood about these people."

"But Gandalf spoke of a rumour that they pay tribute to Mordor," the Dwarf replied.

Aragorn shook his dark head. "I believe it no more than did Boromir."

"Boromir is dead."

"He died honorably, as a prince should. Wait, Gimli, for they approach."

Hooves of full-blooded steeds pounded against the earth and grass in swift succession – the galloping of the horses of Rohan pronounced their coming. Loud were these Riders' voices, as one and triumphant and clear like trumpets blown to a returning procession. Their leader skirted his mount past where Aragorn and Gimli huddled, and after him rode his men. Swift they went and like the wind, so that Aragorn found himself gazing closely at the horsemen to note their garb. Shining was their armour, and their mail shirts gleamed bright in the sunlight like stars in a pale dawn. Tall and fair they were, proud in their stature and laden with the weapons of war – spears in strong hands, shields strapped to backs, and swords hung at their belts. Their faces were one and the same, with the sternness of Men and the alertness of warriors.

They rode past the two in pairs, and Aragorn knew that it was the cloaks of the Elves that hid them from mortal sight. While this was a blessing during watchfulness, it would not do if the Riders passed them completely, for there was much for him to find out. Standing to his feet, with Gimli still sitting in silence, Aragorn let his voice ring true.

"What news from the North, Riders of Rohan?"

The leader of the Riders turned and spoke a quick word; soon, the procession bore down upon the stranger, surrounding him and his unseen companion. Weapons were unsheathed and spears were lowered; many bows with shafts nocked were ready. And yet, their mounts continued their restless pace, circling the strangers. Aragorn looked into each man's face, reading his emotions. Suspicious and cautious they were, and their eyes glittered cold and wary. These were changed men, for Sauron brought forth darkness and trust was no longer infallible as it was in years before. But these were trustworthy and sturdy folk; Aragorn did not doubt his instinct that things would fall into place ere this confrontation was over.

Suddenly, the horses stopped their paces and the Riders glared down at the Ranger. A tall man, fair and noble in appearance, rode forth and Aragorn stood his ground. From the Rider's helm flowed a white tail like that of a pale steed; in his hand he held a spear, which he pointed towards Aragorn's breast. Caution and courtesy flowed in Aragorn's blood and he held himself straight and true.

" Who are you, and what are you doing in this land?"

"I am called Strider," Aragorn said calmly, keeping his voice mild. "I came out of the North. I am hunting Orcs."

Before the Rider could reply, a soldier rode in next to him. Sitting almost sidesaddle behind the Rider was a pale youth clad in grey. His fair hair swept his face as the wind persisted and familiarity lay in his dark eyes. There was something strange about his gaze and Aragorn found it unsettling. Turning to the soldier, the leader spoke. "What is it? I have matters to deal with."

"The prince said that he knows this person, Éomer. He said that he recognized him from afar."

With these words, it suddenly dawned on Aragorn who the pale youth was. The fair hair, now cut short and untidy, grazed high cheekbones and those dark eyes held a melancholy light in them that was startling. Those eyes, that pierced through a soul with clarity and understanding beyond the ken of Men. The noble brow and the slightly proud turn of the mouth.

And yet, there was a tangible veil of sadness over the still figure.

"Legolas?"

* * *

When he had seen the tall and dark figure on the hill-top, Legolas strained his eyes and shaded them with his hand. An elven cloak adorned a man standing confidently upon Rohan's sweet grasses; there was also a shorter and stouter figure beside him. There was an axe in his hand and a helm upon his head. The Elf's heart stopped, then leapt with joy. Aragorn! And _Gimli?_ The Dwarf had not been felled on the slopes of Emyn Muil? He was alive?

The prince felt like crying out to them – his companions had come! But he kept his silence, for he wished to see them closely before he declared their names to his newly found friends. As he watched, he noticed Aragorn turning to Gimli and soon, the two had crossed over the hill and settled down at its foot. Aragorn was ever alert and Legolas slightly smiled at this; the Ranger had not changed – maybe that was for the best. His own keen senses had failed him when he most needed it and the way he was now was all because of that.

Gimli had not changed either, not that Legolas expected him to. During their stay at Lothlórien, he had witnessed more about Gloin's son than he had warranted to, and that was also for the best. He could no longer slander Dwarves, not when Gimli taught him all that there was to know about friendship and the endurance of that bond. Even if Elves claimed differences between themselves and this smaller race, the prince knew one quality that was similar. Both Elves and Dwarves loved beauty and wisdom – Galadriel had been proof of that ere the Fellowship left the Golden Wood. The Dwarf, struck dumb by her kind words and her granting of his gift, had mourned their departure and Legolas never left the trees in his mind.

That is, until his capture and torment at the hands of the Orcs.

As if experiencing a new injury at this thought, Legolas winced, unconsciously tightening his hands around the elven cloak he held. Elves were never used to darkness, unless the stars and the moon brightened that shade. They always loved light and joy, being creators and singers of melodies fair to the mortal ear, for that was their singular expression of how they cherished life and nature. Mordor's blackness had not threatened their existence until the Ring was found – that was when Imladris, Mirkwood, and Lothlórien found themselves in peril. His father fought against the evil lying in wait in Dol Guldur, while the lord Elrond used his might to hold Imladris strong. The Lady Galadriel and her husband, Celeborn the Wise, barred Sauron from invading their realm with all their authority and power.

All Elves fought against the Enemy, for it was either freedom or submission.

And the Elves, being a proud and noble people, the Firstborn of all races in Middle-earth, were not about to hand over their freedom to someone such as Sauron. Sauron, who was Melkor's lieutenant during the Second Age, as his father had told him. Someone who detested Elves with as much hatred as Melkor did during those evil and dark days. For a long time, even before the Third Age, Elves battled the darkness with light and won, although not without struggle and not without losses.

But they won and Sauron hid, still crafting his wiles in that accursed land of his. His minions multiplied and his Orcs increased. Their foul feet trampled the land and they destroyed things of beauty with sadistic pleasure, as if pillaging and ravaging were their only reasons for living. Creatures fell and cruel lived only to inflict torment on fair beings, for that was their sole desire. It was like an appetite for wicked deeds that could not be quelled unless all innocence died and withered, leaving fertile ground for evil to sprout.

Did they succeed with him?

The Elf bowed his head low, leaving the distant figures of Aragorn and Gimli out of his sight. Long was his last torment and he still felt the pain, for that was why he chose to sit sidesaddle. For the prince, it was a matter of shame and Legolas was glad that he was not returning home to Mirkwood, where his eldest brother would mock his appearance. He still saw stripped and bleeding forests in his dreams, along with screaming winds and an ever-increasing darkness that frightened him.

Where did his innate light go? Had he been in the shadows for too long?

A shout rang clear and loud behind him, and Legolas turned to see Aragorn on his feet, his arm raised. Gimli, being stolid and cautious, sat still and did not move. As the Elf watched, attentive, the Riders of Rohan turned as if one and galloped back towards the hill. A sense of danger and alarm roused the Elf and Legolas spoke to the Rider before him. "I know of this man whom we are riding towards."

"The stranger? You know of him?"

"His name is Aragorn. He is one of my companions."

The Rider's fair head turned for a moment. "He is still a stranger in Rohan, and therefore must be spoken and dealt with. Do you wish to speak to him yourself?"

"No. But I must speak to Éomer before he lays harsh judgment on an innocent man. He is as much of a stranger as I am and yet, you have dealt fairly with me. I do not ask for much, but this must be given if you do not wish for innocent blood to flow and to lay a curse upon your land. Elves do not bear ill will but a prince will not see unjust condemnation."

"So you speak truly. We are behind the others – shall we hurry?"

Legolas nodded, urgency being his sole concern. "Go forth, for my friends await their fate!"

Even as Éomer pointed his spear at Aragorn, the Rider bearing Legolas broke through the circle surrounding the two strangers. Éomer glanced towards their direction, but the Elf gazed steadily at Aragorn. The Ranger had not changed much; he still bore that air of weariness and nobility that Legolas knew well. As he looked, he noticed Aragorn staring back and Legolas wondered if recognition was still possible. He thought he glimpsed something in the man's eyes, but what it was, the prince knew not.

"What is it?" He heard Éomer ask in impatience. "I have matters to deal with."

The Rider sitting before Legolas spoke, his voice clear. "The prince said that he knows this person, Éomer. He said that he recognized him from afar."

"Legolas?"

The sound of his name smote the Elf full in the heart and Legolas could do nothing but watch as Aragorn stepped forward, apparently disbelieving his eyes. There was something sad and strange about the Ranger's expression – was it sympathy and pity? Had they not recognized him for whom he was? Legolas released the elven cloak, throwing it down to Aragorn. As the man received it, Gimli stood. The Dwarf gazed at the cloak, and then turned his darker eyes towards the Elf sitting on the Rider's steed. Legolas wanted to leap off the saddle, but he knew his turmoil had wounded him beyond measure and therefore did not stir. It would not do to follow his heart's keening cry, and for his own safety, Éomer had bound him where he sat.

"An elven cloak. Legolas, where is Merry and Pippin?"

"They have fled, Aragorn. Where they have fled to, I know not. They left this for me the morning the Riders came, delivering me out of the hands of my enemies."

"Master Legolas, you surprise me," Gimli said, advancing forward regardless of the spears and arrows pointed at him. "Aragorn and I thought you were dead or dying."

Legolas winced. "You see me before you, do you not, friend Gimli?"

"I do. And I am glad for it! Come on down, friend! It has been idle and dull without an Elf to talk to!"

"I cannot, Gimli. Unless Aragorn is willing to help me, I will stay here."

Aragorn handed the elven cloak to Gimli and stepped forward, speaking softly. "Legolas, have they wounded you to this extent? I will be willingly to aid you, since you seek no other for help."

In silence, the Elven prince nodded.

"Untie him from the mount," Éomer commanded, lowering his spear. "He recognizes them truly and wishes to meet with them. Do not delay him, for his companions await his descent." Without word or question, the Rider sitting before Legolas unsheathed his knife and severed the bonds holding the Elf to the saddle.

"You are free, Legolas," the Rider said, a slight smile on his severe but fair face.

Aragorn approached Legolas and the Elf slid off the mount, refusing for his friend to aid him in so much as getting off a saddle. Unused to sitting in such a stiff contraption that Elves deign to use, Legolas soon found that he was sore as well as in pain and he would have fallen if Aragorn had not caught a hold of him ere he fell. Grimacing at his weakness, Legolas berated himself; should Mirkwood's youngest prince suffer embarrassment for his gracelessness, all because of his treatment at the hands of Orcs?

"Legolas, why so silent? Do you not wish to speak?"

"It has been long since I needed aid from Elf or mortal, Aragorn. As much as I thank you, I desire no pity. Alas, for a prince and an Elf to fall so low! I do not know if this silence forebodes ill tidings for me, but I leave that to fate. She chose my road for me at Emyn Muil – will she be cruel again?"

**Author's Note:** I am leaving Chapter 8 off at this place, because I am running into writer's block and I am in serious need of a stronger vocabulary. I find myself repeating so many of the same words and it's not doing much – it's like trying to climb over boulder after boulder. It seems like I know where the story is headed, but the words and imagery just aren't flowing. Forgive me for this – it is giving me trouble as well. --;;


	9. Scars Upon the Body and Soul

Author's Comments: I continued reading Tolkien's story and kept on thinking about what I wanted to do with this fic. Then, I latched onto a future event and that started the dialogue rolling again, followed by everything else. Eventually, my muse sang again at 11:40 PM on a Monday night (1/8/02). I am ready to proceed and to finish Chapter 8 by continuing it on Chapter 9. Also, with some of the reviewers asking me to get Legolas' hair growing back, I will, but I am in no rush to inprove on his marred fairness. I think his inner fairness is what needs to be developed on, not his fine tresses. And I'm so glad he doesn't 'wimpy' or 'weak' to you guys/gals. I used to have a bad history of making formerly strong warriors into whimpering idiots – begone, those times! laughs

BTW…now _this _seems to be my longest chapter. I also used an ancient word for wood (faggot) in my story, like that of Tolkien. I meant no offense – pardon me if it does, but I believe the dictionary should back me up.

Now then…shall we proceed?

**Shadows Amongst the Leaves**

**Chapter IX**

Fate worked against him at Emyn Muil, betraying him into foul hands and unbearable torture. He clung tightly to Aragorn, smelling the sweet fragrance of morning dew on the man's tunic. Green stains left behind by sleeping on the lush hills of Rohan stood out and Legolas remembered for a moment the trees of Mirkwood. His home was so distant from him; being northwards of Rohan and beyond the Misty Mountains, close to the town near the lake Esgaroth. Before he left for the council, before he became a member of their now broken Fellowship, Legolas already missed his father's realm. He loved the trees and the sunlight, for he reveled in their natural beauty. Often he sang songs to the forest, and the birds and beasts welcomed him with delight.

Being the youngest in his family, he was often excused and being an Elf, there was none needed. Although his eldest brother found strife with him over such small tidings, Legolas listened not to his sibling's rebuke, for he saw no harm in the trees. His father, being preoccupied with his jewels and wine, cared not about the trouble between them; that was for them to decide. Legolas knew where he wanted to be, and his nobility did not harness his wandering heart. For young and gentle he was and the forest mourned his leaving, for there was never one that loved them as much as he loved himself.

Silence lay heavily upon the circle of Riders and upon the three companions gathered in its center. Legolas listened to their breathing, as one who had ceased to breathe himself – perhaps out of contemplation? With a slight shake, Aragorn roused him from his thoughts and the Elf raised his face to look his friend in the eye. "I desire no pity, Aragorn, even if I am hurt beyond your help. Alas, these wounds are more than Man or Elf could heal!"

"I know what you mean, and I am saddened by that," the Ranger said, his voice soft. "You seek no pity, but I cannot hold my sympathies back. What you endured and survived is something that no one should encounter. I have heard of another like yours, and that too ended in grief."

"I do not know where my suffering will take me. My own path is dimly lit and my feet are lost, forever kept in the shade by this fell darkness. If I look hard enough, perhaps I will find my way out." Legolas lowered his head; he felt exhaustion drawing strength from his limbs and the prince gave himself into Aragorn's concerned embrace. "I am weary. Let me rest, for only there will I find peace."

"You wish to sleep?"

"No. I am tired and sick at heart. What you call rest will be but a short pause in this journey."

Gimli came to stand next to the two, his gaze upon the two companions. "Rest then, Legolas. It would do us no good if you are too weary to help us search for the hobbits!"

Legolas laughed then; it was like a ray of moonlight piercing through a grey cloud in a dark sky. "Bless you for your stout heart, friend! Elves should befriend Dwarves more, for they know not what they miss."

"And so should Dwarves, Master Elf!"

The merriment of the moment was not lost on the Riders of Rohan. As the companions talked, spears and bows were lowered and Éomer smiled in spite of himself. Legolas caught the many meaningful glances and whispers amongst the battle-hardened soldiers as Aragorn led him towards the foot of the hill and settled him there. As gentle as the Ranger's hands were, he touched bruises and the Elf winced. His healing was slow and he had no doubt in mind that some malicious will of Isengard and Mordor doubly cursed him.

As the Orcs' hatreds for Elves were venomous in nature…

"Legolas, did Merry and Pippin say anything to you before their departure?"

Painful memories awakened in his mind, and the Elf restrained his emotions. "They said nothing to me. When I awoke, they had left me with a cloak, a packet of _lembas,_ and their kind hearts in cutting me free of my bonds. Other than that, I cannot tell you much."

"Were they in danger at any time?"

Legolas closed his eyes, shielding whatever expression from the insistent Ranger. "Less than I was in, Aragorn son of Arathorn. May I rest, my friend?"

"My apologies." Aragorn soon left, along with his fading steps that gradually stopped all together. A low murmur of voices and introductions started; had the man decided to talk to the men of Rohan?

Left alone, Legolas resumed his thoughts that Aragorn unintentionally interrupted. For his healing to be this slow, there had to be some ill intent at work. It was not just the incessant battering and clouting that made his body so sore and unable to mend – did Saruman cast some sorcery over him? Images of the Istar towering over him in total dominance and power shook his body and wrung loose sweat; he had not forgotten. The wizard had lost his full advantage when Legolas dared to challenge his meddling – the promise of exacting vengeance had been done. What else did Saruman do to him in his wrath?

Words began to speak through his mind, and the Elven prince shuddered. How could he have forgotten? Something about Orcs; a spell sent to demoralize his heart and to vanquish his soul. Looking like an Orc when his own willpower and strength were weak. Could that be the sole reason? Terror and despair filled him. To look like the creatures that he used to slay in vengeance for the loss of his mother – it was enough to make his darkest nights become the blackest ones, all barren without stars to light the shadows.

Legolas did not know what to do to break this cruel curse. When Mithrandir was still alive, the Istari might have been able to help him. But that was a while ago, and the wizard had plunged to the depths of Moria along with the Balrog. There was no hope for his curse to be broken, at least not by his own hands. Nor anyone else's, even if they wished to free him of this oppressing burden – he had to hold his own ground for some time.

For how long, he despaired of knowing.

As his thoughts quieted down and exhaustion flowed through his blood, the young prince rested, dreaming of days before he even knew about lord Elrond's council.

* * *

"We need to find the rest of our companions," Aragorn said, looking at Éomer. "We came in search of three and we have found one." Legolas now slept at the hill's foot – a successful and blessed find, for Aragorn feared him dead or aloof beyond hope. While the matter of the Elf was done, there still remained Merry and Pippin. Legolas' words reassured him, along with the elven cloak, but until the hobbits were found, Aragorn considered his responsibilities unfinished.

"We do not allow strangers, even friends of the Elf, to wander the plains of Rohan," Éomer stated sternly. "The King of the Mark is cautious and thinks queer things of strange folk. It would not do to arouse his anger for a small thing unrelated to us."

"I ask of you, kindly and with grace, to allow us to proceed."

"You are a stubborn man, Heir of Elendil. And yet, you speak graciously and with patience. These are hard times and for a man to speak fairly is rare. Who is it that you seek?"

Éothain spoke aloud, as if in disregard of Aragorn and Éomer's counsel. "My lord, you will not let him! There are laws that you cannot break, even less for men searching for friends. They have found the Elf – is that not enough? Must they wander the plains like intruders? We slew Orcs for the same reason!"

"Peace, Éothain! I see not an Orc before me. Rather, the Heir of Elendil stands before us, speaking with a courteous tongue. Although our laws do hold true and strong, we must make allowances for occasions like this. You have lost companions to the Orc hordes before – do you begrudge them their grief and weariness?"

The Rider gave a black look at Strider. "You err and that is uncommon, my lord."

"Even if I err, can I hold back men who willingly face death and questioning? Many men do not seek trouble, yet these men do, for the sake of their friends."

"We seek it willingly, even if you must lay down your law." Aragorn tightened his grip over Andúril's hilt. "If you seek to judge us and to take your forces against us, fewer of you will return." Beside him, Gimli stood ready with his axe, having already threatened Éomer for his words against the Lady Galadriel; it had been a close one that Aragorn quickly intervened in, seeing how the Rider and the Dwarf were almost coming to blows. Not for a few words was Isildur's heir about to forfeit his life. And yet, now having said his part, Aragorn stood, gazing at the Rider with the respect and attention common to leaders.

Éomer gazed back, unfazed. "Leave us alone, men! Let me talk to the strangers for a while!"

Most of the Riders rode away, without mutterings and complaints. Éothain gave Aragorn another dark look, and then rode away with the rest of his companions. Once left alone, Éomer spoke. "You speak with conviction and with heart, and I cannot deny men like that without justification. As you can see, my men are cautious and suspicious, yet they wish to leave this place."

"They do so with common nature, and that is faultless."

"And you still seek your companions. Who are they?"

"They are hobbits or Halflings. We seek them with urgency." Gimli said with a frown.

Éomer looked hard at them, and Aragorn saw doubt in his eyes. "Halflings. We speak of them as legend, as myth. But if it is the truth – and I trust your words – then it is my duty to aid you. Therefore, I will grant you your freedom to search for them and I will lend you horses. However, you must promise to me one thing: after your search, should it go for good or for ill, bring the steeds back over the Entwade to Mesuseld. That is where Théoden resides, in the high house of Edoras. This will be your proof of your trustworthiness and my pledge to you. For in doing this, I am placing my life and myself at his mercy. Do not fail, for I have already erred."

"I will not fail," Aragorn said, solemn.

* * *

His wounds bled and Legolas stood in his dream, shedding all pain. Whatever stiffness he had acquired in his flesh, it left and the Elf wandered the dreary lands, seeing nothing but agony and darkness. The wind buffeted at his body and sang words of a foul and coarse language. What it was the Elf did not want to know; he had no wish to find Black Speech in his nightmares.

Behind him, ever steady and trustworthy, walked his father.

Legolas could sense the Elf's presence and it soothed his heart. Twice, during his trials, his father saved him from forsaking himself over to darkness and death. It was his last touch, his last embrace that delivered him out of utter contempt and self-pity for his suffering. Shame still lingered over him but his father's strength fought against the delusion of weakness and lack of pride – rather, it was the other way around. After surviving the Orcs' black desires and torment, Legolas was still surprised to find his noble blood running strong.

Thranduil had imparted more than just life and hope, it seemed.

"Legolas, will you wander forever?" His father asked, his voice breaking through the oppressive silence. "Are you free of your captors?"

The Elf halted in his steps and stood still. "I am free of their hands, father. As for wandering, I will walk until I find the road I am supposed to be on; for during my struggles, I lost my footing and the darkness seized me."

The king strode towards his son, holding out his hand. "Follow me for some time, Legolas. Even if this road is yours to find, I will try to help you find some light in this severe night. Do you remember times before you left for this quest? Do you still see trees in flower, in bloom, coming from a harsh winter? Mirkwood used to be your delight, for you loved the trees."

"I still do, father."

"Then follow me. This will not be lasting, but make it so and keep it as your strength. Come, take my hand, for I will not have you lost on this path."

This time, Legolas did not hesitate. Taking a hold of his father, he followed his steps, until it became clear where he was going. After such trials, the Elven prince began to see some joy, some gaiety and merriment that had all but been lost to him.

He was going to Mirkwood.

"Legolas, awake!"

The Elf opened his eyes, never leaving his dreams far behind. "What is it, Gimli? Can you not see I am resting?"

The Dwarf smiled, his rough features almost kind in a strangely bemusing way. "For once, you slept with your eyes closed! And I thought all Elves slept with their eyes open, Master Elf! You have yourself before, if I recall my memory right. Startled me at first, how you could sleep and dream while looking like as if you were awake!"

Exhaustion left him and Legolas smiled. "Alas, I am tired and in search of more than sleep! Never did I close my eyes, for the weariness had not been so tiresome before! But you see me better than most, Gimli. You have ever since our stay at Lothlórien and for that, I am glad. Were it that I lived my life alone – now that is a troubling thought."

"I would not allow you to," Gimli said. "You prove better than most Dwarves at being friends."

"And does that surprise you?"

"You were impetuous at first, Master Legolas."

Legolas gazed at the Dwarf who challenged him thus. "In what ways, Gimli son of Gloin?"

"Hmph! An Elf frolicking on snow while the company freezes. Did not Gandalf speak of your ways?"

"I went to see the Sun."

"And did you find it, my good Elf?"

"I did, but she refused my plea. On coming back, I found our Strong Men toiling. If the Sun had agreed with my words, perhaps we could have surmounted Caradhras."

Gimli shook his head. "If your feet were less swift, we might have pushed you off the cliff."

"Would you, Master Dwarf? Your days would be more lonely without my words." The light-hearted bantering between the two warmed Legolas' heart, for it reminded him of days of camaraderie and joy. Before the Dwarf and he were accustomed to each other, jibes and jests were a constant. Gandalf wearied of it at the Gates of Moria, when both denied fault for the downfall of the friendship between Dwarves and Elves. They had fought over their rights at the borders of Lothlórien, each indignant at being blindfolded – Gimli for the injustice; Legolas for being a kinsmen. That was the start of a life-long friendship.

"The words of an arrogant Elf would be less comforting. Do not forget my axe."

"I did not think it in you to use it on me."

The Dwarf scowled. "As much as I used to trust in that bow of yours. I swore an arrow was meant for me."

The Elf smiled, shaking his head. So much depth in the minds of Dwarves! "That would be my loss then. Come now, Gimli. Companions parted do not just talk, like the way birds sing. Come and embrace me, friend, for I have been away for too long."

Legolas' words were not needed; Gimli dropped his axe and rushed the Elf, almost throwing himself into the prince's arms. Ever since his father comforted him on that evil night, Legolas found himself seeking the huddling of bodies and the closeness of friends. It was like that on Caradhras and in Moria, when being so close to others banished fears and dark shadows. It made the future distant, holding it back with bonds of love and trust.

It mattered to the Elf.

"So you have missed me, Gimli."

"It is dull without your company, Legolas. Aragorn does the tracking and he rarely talks. If he talks at all, it is about tokens and footsteps in the dirt or grass."

A sharp pain stabbed through Legolas' consciousness and the prince grimaced. "Wait, Gimli. My breath is short." As the Dwarf released his hold, the Elf drew in another breath and found it agonizing. What did Gimli's grasp do? With his trained fingers, Legolas prodded along his ribs, only to find that a broken bone was the cause. Memories of a savage beating and the eventual pummeling by a circle of Orcs surfaced into his mind. One of the creatures had kicked him, driving the bone into inner flesh.

That was the cause of this sudden pain, this dark turn of events.

"Gimli! Legolas! Éomer has granted us his leave to search for Merry and Pippin. Hurry, for we have to look while it is still light!"

Gimli stood and walked over to Aragorn. "You may need to carry Legolas."

"It will be needed. For this old injury is enough to hamper my breathing and I cannot walk or ride."

"Ride we must, Legolas son of Thranduil. The Riders of Rohan have given us horses – we cannot walk, lest we tarry and fail our friends." The Ranger knelt down, his eyes full of concern. Legolas could feel compassion emanating from the man. "If you cannot ride, we will find ways to take you with us. We will not leave you behind."

"Two horses," Gimli said in chagrin. "Do you expect me to ride as well – a Dwarf upon those beasts?"

"Friend Gimli, if you decide to ride with me, will it ease your mind?"

"But I thought you said you cannot ride!"

Legolas struggled to stand, but fell at the sudden fire burning through his breast. "That makes two of us, then! Aragorn, if you could find a way so that I could sit sidesaddle and have Gimli behind me, I will be grateful. The Dwarf should not suffer for my sake." After so many words, the Elf felt his breath stifled and the Ranger laid him back down upon the hill's slope.

"Stay silent, Legolas. I will try what I may and should fate be for us, we will go forth with all speed."

Where were they headed? Did Aragorn know where to search? "Aragorn, do you know where Merry and Pippin went? The last I saw of them was near Fangorn's woods."

"If that is so, that is where we will look."

Hours later, the three companions set out. Legolas, now sitting sidesaddle, with Gimli clinging tightly to him, urged Arod forward. As if sensing his master's will, the horse galloped swiftly, lingering closely behind Aragorn. At times, Aragorn dismounted and read the ground for signs. As the sun drew itself closer to the west, the sky darkened behind grey clouds and the company grew weary.

Legolas noticed the many fallen Orcs in their path. Grey-feathered arrows protruded out of their corpses like reminders of what evil deserved, and the Elf lowered his gaze. Too often Saruman's words came back out of gloom and shadow to haunt him, throwing a veil of dread over him. They were once Elves, twisted into these hideous shapes. Once Elves, like he was. Once fair, tall, and proud – now fallen and full of hate. Could he still slay them, if his life depended on it? Would he be able to overcome his fears?

He hated them; slaying them was his desire.

But now, could he still hold true to that, knowing what they once were?

Fangorn loomed near and Legolas could not help, but feel his senses shrinking back in terror. Much had happened here – a curse bound, perversion and depravity spawned, and a life forever changed. Smoke rose to the sky, billowing and black; Orcs were burned here. He had seen it. Weapons, cruel craftsmanship of Saruman's creatures, lay cluttered near the ashes. A goblin head leered from a stake in its center; the Elf felt ill at the sight. Gimli held tightly to him and Legolas strove to overcome his discomfort. It would not do to pass his feelings onto the Dwarf.

Aragorn rode out ahead, circling the wide expanse and Legolas did the same from the opposite side, all the while holding in his fright. He did not like this place, not when he knew how he had suffered here. What Aragorn did not know was how his suffering had taken form or shape; mere words could not describe that black night. Legolas willed the images to leave but they lingered, taunting him for his weakness. Shaking his head in distress, the prince rode on, until the sun abandoned the sky and darkness fell. Stars, small and pale, shone in the distance and the world felt full of tranquility.

There was none in the heart of the Elf, though.

"We have found no sign of them," Aragorn finally exclaimed, reining his horse closer to Legolas and Gimli. "We will search when the sun returns."

Gimli alone looked mournful. "We have tried and we have failed to find them. If the Riders had done their work too thoroughly, that is a heavy blow. For hobbits and Orcs to be mistaken as one! Even a Dwarf could tell the difference! What do we tell Frodo, should we all return to Rivendell after this quest? Even Elrond did not wish for them to come, young innocents!"

"Gandalf insisted on it," Legolas said, his voice calm.

"In doing so, he lost his life. Out of us all, he fell first and that was the beginning of this unraveling of our Fellowship."

"I know your grief, Gimli but we must seek for light when there seems to be none. Gandalf chose to go willingly, not even pausing to save his own life. He knew safety was not his concern; rather, it was the Ringbearer that was our sole purpose for heading out. Sometimes, we must stride forward to confront darkness, for that is the only way. We will not stir from this place until I am content with my finds. Come, let us make camp." So saying, Aragorn rode away.

Legolas, still fighting for inner tranquility, followed him away from the field. Away from uncertainty, away from nagging thoughts and voices screaming guilt and shame in his mind. Away from images too scarring to explain aloud and away from a ground drenched with blood.

Most of all, away from that goblin head.

* * *

Beneath a chestnut tree, the three laid themselves down to rest and to ponder the day's events. Legolas, sore from riding and breathless from his injury, lay farther away from Aragorn and Gimli. Prodding at the rib, he winced. Would it that aVala could heal him of this wound, lest it slow his pace even more than it had already! The Man and Dwarf spoke – Gimli grumbling about the chill wind and the lack of blankets to drive the cold away; Aragorn about the dangers of Fangorn and of being near Isengard. Gimli grunted then, complaining about the Riders gathering wood from Fangorn's trees.

"I would take great care about your axe," Aragorn warned. "Cut no wood from Fangorn. It is perilous to do so when rumours surround a wood such as this."

"Not that I would!" Gimli protested. "You think me a fool for wanting an early death?"

"I said not, Gimli."

"Very well, then! I will go and collect some faggots, before this wind freezes my bones." Tramping off, his axe secure in his belt, the Dwarf trudged off in search for firewood.

It was very silent and Legolas cared not for the cold. Aragorn's eyes flickered over to him, and the Elf regarded the Ranger quietly. "Do you fear my lack of words, Aragorn?" Legolas wanted nothing more than to be alone in his thoughts for a while.

"Your silence is disturbing, Legolas. It is not the normal silence for an Elf."

"I have endured much. Perhaps that brings about this wall that none of us could surpass."

"Do not pity yourself, son of Thranduil!"

Legolas looked hard at Aragorn, anger flaring in his heart. "If I do not need your pity, then why should I indulge in mine? Choose your words well next time, for when you speak, it can either bring sorrow or joy to someone already grieving!"

The Ranger glanced down, as if chastised, only to meet Legolas' sight again. "I speak on your behalf, Legolas."

"And I do for yours. Leave me in peace, Aragorn. Look, for Gimli returns." With that, Legolas withdrew into his own shelter, watching as the Dwarf, laden with branches started a fire. The warm light drove away the shadows, radiating a purity that even the Elf could feel. Yet, as with other times, Legolas saw again Lothlórien in disgrace and he turned his eyes away from the dancing flames of crimson and gold. This was one image, one mark from his nightmares that was forever going to haunt him.

"The heat is needed, Gimli. Thanks for your hard work."

"No need for profuseness," the Dwarf replied back stoutly. "My own hands are frozen."

As Legolas continued keeping watch, he noticed the chestnut branches reaching down towards the flames. The trees liked the warmth and comfort of the fire? The Elf stared in wonder as the withered boughs leaned forward, their upper branches receiving the light well. The leaves on the ends, brown and dry, seemed to be stroking each other, like how Aragorn and Gimli rubbed their hands together to thwart the cold. Seeing such a sight, the prince could not help but think about Mirkwood.

He loved the trees there; he often sang to them in the past.

But that was all over.

Just then, a presence drew near to him, and Legolas glanced skywards in surprise. The tree was responding to him? But why? The gnarled branches reached down and stroked his astonished face, like that of a mother to a frightened child. Dry leaves raked past his cheeks, like hands cherishing a work of craftsmanship. Aragorn and Gimli were watching, just as astonished, but Legolas no longer saw them. Reaching for the branches, he felt them sliding past his hand, receiving his thanks.

The tree loved him; it still saw him for who he was. A single tear slipped down his face, and Legolas felt it.

"Thank you," he whispered.


	10. War Beckons

Author's Comments: It has come to my attention that to one reader, the plot is hardly advancing from Chapter 9. If this is the case, it's because I'm leaning rather heavily upon the book for the structuring of some crucial events that will benefit the story (The Two Towers is slow when the Three Hunters try to find Merry and Pippin). Once I can get free of the book's events and construct some of mine, then it'll move in a jiffy! ;;; And yes, this is where it gets hard – how to go into Legolas' mind without bogging down the story with self-pity? I hope the Elf can help me write it out; it's always easier that way. As for his wounds – just read on down.

Three lines of dialogue are taken directly from 'The Riders of Rohan' chapter in TTT.

To all readers – thanks for the encouragement and feedback! The suggestions also help – I've already used a few of them! smiles

**Shadows Amongst the Leaves**

Chapter X 

Night fell nigh upon Rivendell, hiding the Elven abode in a comfortable swath of darkness. Thranduil, Elven-king of Northern Mirkwood, ruler of the Silvan Elves walked along a balcony in heavy strides, bent towards his thoughts. Stars shone in the sky like dim harbingers of peace, studded across a wide expanse of black and violet that roiled with wispy clouds. Sighing, Thranduil bowed his fair head. Even in the silence of Imladris, his heart clamored loudly for his son.

"What troubles you, lord of Mirkwood?"

The Elven-king turned around at the sound of Elrond's voice. The Half-elf stepped onto the balcony, and glanced at the sky with clear grey eyes. Ageless he seemed and fair, alike that of the Sindarin ruler who gazed at him with curiosity. A silver circlet bound back his raven hair, shining from the faint flames of nearby basins. Clad in a heavy robe of dark blue, Elrond seemed adjoined with the surrounding shadows but his fairness appeared as a light in the intensifying gloom.

"Is it not tranquil tonight, my friend? And yet, you seek no rest or food."

"I see only my son, and he is ever wistful in our forests. He gazes at all things, whether they are beast or tree with innocent eyes. He has not forgotten much, but what he has lost is telling and I cannot bring back broken memories. He walks with wounded steps, and a shadow hangs over his head."

Elrond lowered his gaze from the stars. "Such it was with Celebrían, my beloved. I healed her of the poisoned wound, but her heart fled from Middle-earth. She found no comfort in Imladris, even when I held her close and declared my undying love for her. In loving her, I let her go west. From there, she sailed for the Undying Lands. Her tracks I cannot yet follow, for there is much to be done."

"You suffer in your loss, and I grieve with you."

"As so do you, my friend. Such grief should not be one's own but shared. Perhaps, your son needs comfort from another as well. The Fellowship should be his guide and unerring support."

Legolas, his youngest. Although he possessed most of his mother's beauty, he also derived a fierce sense of courage and pride from Thranduil himself. Having dealt with his son before, the Elven-king knew what Legolas would say in times worthy of pity. His son detested pity even from companions and allies. What the real danger was was if he failed to spot his own wretchedness and thereby tumbled into an abyss of his own making. In his pride and unseen folly, Legolas could stumble and never rise again.

"If my son is willing to accept aid from his companions, he might have a chance. But I know him, Elrond, and he delights not in the giving of pity. Should they give him the wrong turn of words or glances, he will despise them for their care. I worry for his sake."

"It is his path, Thranduil. He must walk it, or he will never emerge triumphant."

The Elf glanced quickly into the calm eyes of his dark-haired counselor. "And if he fails, Elrond? What if he should fail?"

"The sons of Thranduil do not surrender easily to the Enemy. Legolas is strong enough to surmount difficulties thrown into his path. I did not choose your son from mere rabble, my friend. He will prove himself in the right after all of this ceases."

"I see. You spoke to me as one speaks to a child unsure of his way."

The Half-elf fell into thought, his brow heavy with advice and consolation. When he spoke again, the wisdom of his words hushed the din in Thranduil's heart. "Sometimes, we are all children lost in our paths, my fellow lord – for this is our blessing in that we can amend our faults."

* * *

"Aragorn, is that my knife at your belt?" Legolas asked, his sight fixed on the weapon. "Did you find my bow and quiver as well? Those are dear to me, for the Lady Galadriel bestowed them to me ere we left that pleasant land." The tree's acceptance of him and what that meant had loosened the Elf's tongue, and Legolas spoke fairly and was pleased. Silence was hard to bear for any Elf, and meant severe grief. Troubled at first by who he was after his trials, he now rested alongside his friends. Speech came to him as if unsealed by that affirmation of his identity.

"You speak and withhold your silence, Legolas." The Ranger smiled and withdrew the sheathed knife from his belt. "Take your weapon, son of Thranduil. I do not wish to burden you with your other tools of war but if you insist, I will freely hand them over."

"Give them unto me, then, my friend. For the pain is not so unbearable that an archer's tools will not be borne. Although I am in no condition to battle, I will not see my weapons go to ruin."

Unstrapping the bundle on his back by loosening his baldric, Aragorn brought the wrapped weapons out of hiding. Legolas closed his fingers around the silver-hafted knife, sliding it firmly into his belt as to free his hands. As the bow and quiver were handed to him, the prince held onto them possessively. He did not know when he would have the courage to use them again but they were his by right. Noticing the quiver was empty, he sighed. "There were plenty of arrows near Parth Galen. If I had not been seized, I would find arrows to refill this empty vessel."

"Leave your ill thoughts behind, Legolas."

It was not a suggestion given to him. It was a command. Challenged, the Elf stared at the Ranger. "I speak because I find my heart calmed for a while, Aragorn. I do not leave behind thoughts of torture and inevitable death by your will. I do not give myself pity, although my heart desires it with bitterness. Cannot a prince assuage his own wounds ere a friend speaks in such a tone? I know of your concern but it is not in your right to tell me what I should think or not."

"Perhaps not, Legolas but your insistence to wheedle out pain and agony will do you great harm. It is almost as if the Orcs have left a shadow upon you. Any Elf who still has mettle and strength would work to cast off such a burden; however, you embrace it and it stings you like nettles upon a naked hand. You daily grow weaker in will, son of Thranduil, and if you are not wary, your body will fail you as well."

The counsel of Aragorn burned in the Elven prince's heart like fire upon a bleeding wound, and Legolas responded the only way he knew how. Releasing his weapons with the force of anger, the Elf lunged for the Ranger. Startled, Aragorn seized him roughly and bore him to the ground, even as Gimli stood in shock. Fury, bitterness, and despair wholly filled Legolas and he knew not what he did. Pain tore through his body as Isildur's heir restrained him; madness screamed eerily in his mind, enticing him towards darkness. What evil had taken control of him?

"Legolas, are you so distressed that violence is the only way you seek?"

Aragorn. He had attacked his one of his closest friends. What had he done? Could he ever make amends for this? Agony from his wounds drove darkness out of his mind, and the Elf went silent. He could not endure Aragorn's words; for although they were spoken in truthfulness, they reminded him of whom he used to be. A tall and proud Elf-prince, who never sought others for aid but did all things by his own hands. Aragorn called him weak in his struggles, and to Legolas, this was an unforgivable blow against his pride.

And then, he nearly struck his own.

"Legolas, have you returned to your senses, yet?"

It was strangely quiet. Gimli knelt down next to him, and it grieved the Elf to see caution reflected in the Dwarf's eyes. "Master Legolas, what overcame you?"

He was so tired and night still reigned strong over Fangorn. "A sudden anger, Gimli. One that I cannot explain. Aragorn, it was unlike me. Release me, for whatever madness I fell into, it has left me."

"Such madness I had never seen in an Elf, Legolas. What did the Orcs do to you? Tell me! You live in constant strife with yourself, denying your hurt but it has manifested itself. If we were asleep, would you have slain us where we slept? Your captors have done more than you let us know. What did they do to you? – for I will not rest until I know the reason for your torment and anger!"

"I cannot say, Aragorn."

The Ranger lowered his head in exasperation. "I will not release you until you tell me what lowered you to this state, son of Thranduil. Even now, blood stains your garb, for you tore open your wounds in that foolish attempt. I will tend to your needs soon but not until I see why you chose to attack instead of talk."

Defeated, Legolas found it difficult to hold his gaze onto Aragorn's piercing one. He looked away, and the man did not force his sight back towards him. For so long, he fought within for a semblance of peace – now, it had proven fruitless. He was not able and strong enough to combat the ravenous darkness that sought for control within him. With his father's guidance, all might have been possible. But he was full-grown, and his own paths he chose. Would he rely on his father for the rest of his life? Did he not say that he needed no aid or help of hands? He knew he was still an Elf, for the tree ensured him of that or else it would have denied his touch. An Elf lost in shadows, seeking any thread of light through dark skies.

He had tried; still, he was trying.

Where was he going, though – down into self-pity and black thoughts or up towards hope and light remembrances? Why could he not fight harder – what was holding him back?

"Speak, Legolas. You fall again into silence and it worries me."

The words were slow to come; so raw were the memories that accompanied them. "Long did they torment me, ever in day or night. Orcs seldom stop when they carry prisoners by the wills of their masters. But halt they did, for they wished me agony. It was seemingly light work at first but it soon got worse."

Aragorn gently shook him. "Do not cease in this talk, my friend. Perhaps this will heal your heart. You have kept it within, allowing it to poison your very being. We are your companions; we have endured trials together. Speak, Legolas and do not stop."

"You are very patient, Aragorn. And yet, my memories never cease to terrify me."

"Then talk and we shall bear your fear and pain together."

"I could not do much against Orcs unarmed. They bound my wrists, so that in my struggles, I now bear scars. They beat me, drawing blood and breaking bones. One of my ribs is now broken, and it pains me. They used the lash on me. I often held back death but willed for it when my suffering increased. They burned me, used their weapons on me. I could not fight them in my state, for I had long since weakened and ceased to be a threat. They took great glee in this, as all Orcs do when they maim an Elf."

The Ranger's hands loosened somewhat, and Legolas knew without looking that an expression of immense sorrow creased his brow. "Orcs delight in all forms of cruelty, Legolas."

Legolas did not respond.

"You hesitate, and I have no doubt that we are approaching your sorest trials. If you choose not to speak further, that is your desire. However, know this: if you should not tell, we cannot be at your side to comfort you. And that will grieve me, my friend. I have already grieved more than once on your behalf, and to neglect you at your worst is faulty of me. Gimli and I traveled far to find you; we will not leave you ruined as such."

"Then I will speak further."

"For that, you possess fierce courage. Do not let the Enemy seize that from you."

He spoke then, feeling himself aloof of all that he said. To the Elf, it seemed as if he heard his words from afar. "The night ere you found me, Saruman happened upon the Orcs. I believed them to be his, and they listened to his words. He came upon us – Merry, Pippin, and I. He tried to bring me by force towards his darkness, and I fought him hard and won. But wrath consumed him, and he doomed me to further torment by a curse that I have yet to see take form. What it is I will not describe to you, too horrid for words even to explain."

"This curse – can it be broken by Gandalf, do you think?"

"I do not know. If he were still alive, I might have hope. But he is fallen, and I do not ask for dead souls to grant me freedom when they should be sleeping. Saruman laid his curse, and his anger still burned. In his rage, he gave me over to his Orcs." Legolas shuddered. He felt Aragorn holding him tightly, as if to say that he knew his fear. He could not look Aragorn in the eye; so shameful did he feel about that accursed night. He could have fought back if he had the strength but he had none left. Was it because he already saw no hope?

"What then, Legolas?"

"They defiled me." The words rang harsh in his ears, and the Elf cringed. "They soiled me with their filth, and laughed at my agony. Saruman commanded them to; they obeyed his bidding. I wished for death that night but I was saved from it. I could not find any endurance left. I desired death."

Gimli's voice raged. "If I could lay my hands on that wizard and his Orcs, I would happily behead them all!"

"That you would, Gimli." Aragorn spoke softly, and instead of releasing Legolas, brought him towards him in a gentle embrace. "You have spoken words of pain, son of Thranduil – that takes courage. Do not consider yourself craven; no lesser being could have lasted such fiendish torture. You have withheld your tears, for it is known by Men and Dwarves – even Halflings – that Elves compose themselves in all times. But there is still wretchedness within you, and if you do not weep, it will never heal."

"I have already said much, my friend. It hurts like a new wound, yet the burden is lightened."

"That is why I said you must speak, Legolas. That is the only way to recover from such ills."

"Would it that Sam could aid Frodo, for his turmoil is greater than mine."

Aragorn, son of Arathorn shook his head. "Alas, for the both of you! I do not know whose burden is greater now, for both of you carry heavy weights in your soul. Will they heal? That is not in my knowledge, although the deities would know. The Ring and a scarred life – which is heavier?"

* * *

"He has escaped and shed some shadows, Elrond."

"And so you have stood guard as he battled, my fellow lord. Is Legolas strong of will?"

Thranduil rested his hand upon the railing, staring out at the stars. "It was a close struggle, and it was not his fight alone. Someone was urging him in the battle, crying out for reason and speech. A sudden darkness shrouded him and dimmed Mirkwood's brightness, and in that cloak of evil he fought. It was one that he chose to win."

"Does it ease your heart, Thranduil?"

"It does, but his struggles are far from over. This is only the first wall down – he has many to overcome. It is like a siege upon his soul; a war that I cannot help him win. So from here, our paths split. I will follow him from behind in his lost ways, hoping to be his counselor in times of need."

The Half-elf raised his head, avoiding Thranduil and instead looked down at the cliffs upon which Rivendell rested. "He has overcome something, then. His recovery has begun with his strength."

"You mentioned Mithrandir to me a while ago, Elrond. So he has left for Fangorn, and has left you words of advice? What are they, if you are willing to let foreign ears hear."

"Mithrandir told me to be alert for the call of the Lord of Eagles, that of the mighty Gwaihir. What that forebodes I have no ken of, except to await and listen for his cry."

Gwaihir the Windlord? The Lord of Eagles? What strange news was this? "Wizards talk forever in riddles, do they not, Elrond?"

"Your son's heart is a riddle. Our dilemma is one as well. Until Middle-earth is lost, Thranduil, we will forever be creating and solving riddles."

* * *

"These wounds are deep, Legolas. Should they heal, you will bear scars." Legolas nodded wearily as Aragorn stripped the light bandages off of his torso, revealing his wounds. He heard Gimli gasp aloud in horror at what befell him, and the Elf closed his eyes. He could see what the Dwarf saw – stripes of crimson in a cruel pattern, crisscrossing upon formerly pale flesh. He wondered if the healing regions were still grey and sickly in appearance.

"Alas for that!" said Legolas, sighing. "It would be hard to return home without reflecting on these marks. I would be considered fallen, even if I came back in triumph."

Gimli trudged over to him; his stout and burly form massive. There was a hard glint in his eye. "If your subjects despise you for your honesty and bravery in hardship, I will use my axe to threaten their tongues!"

"Nay, Gimli! Do you wish to hasten the divide between Elves and Dwarves? Rather, it is my burden."

"One that I will bear with you, Master Elf!"

Legolas smiled. It was easier now, after his companions had heard of his misfortunes. "You do not need to carry unnecessary weight, Master Dwarf. As it looks now, you are already heavy enough. The armour and axe does not help, which is unfortunate."

As Gimli sputtered in playful rage, Legolas laughed. Aragorn walked over, holding in his hand ripped cloth and a small basin of hot water. The fire burned merrily, and while Legolas turned not his eyes towards the flames, he felt their warmth. The Ranger knelt down next to him, holding his attention with his steadfast gaze. "Legolas, I will tend to your wounds. This might hurt, I warrant you that."

"It is not uncommon for injuries to protest when touched, Aragorn. Just be as gentle as you could, for my sake. These wounds are slow to heal and are still raw. My own folly moments ago ripped them open, I believe."

"And what folly, Legolas! Although it surprises me how an Elf unable to ride a horse could leap at me like that!"

Light jests and talks – like before the Fellowship sundered at Amon Hen. "I rode a mount, Aragorn. Although it is not the common way of riding, I did accompany you to Fangorn, did I not? Gimli was not used to it, I must say."

"Hold your tongue, Master Elf!" the Dwarf retorted, glaring at Legolas with bright and fierce eyes. "If you had not urged the horse to quicken his pace, I might have held on better!"

"Falling behind was not our goal, though. Is that not true, Aragorn?"

"It is true, Legolas and for now, I will ask you to brace yourself. Gimli son of Gloin, keep watch for fell things. Should there be any cause for alarm, call me."

The Dwarf tramped off, muttering under his breath. "Call you? A Dwarf's voice is loud enough to echo through caves. As if I am incompetent for watching a makeshift camp with three companions – a Man, an Elf, and I!"

Legolas' keen hearing caught Gimli's complaints and the prince could not help smiling in mild amusement. "Caves already echo themselves, my friend. Your bellowing would benefit us all from a distance."

Gimli growled ferociously. "Speak less, Elf! For albeit I am your friend, your words should be more fair; lest this axe shorn off more than your tongue!"

"Ah, so the prince is now threatened?" Legolas mocked back, watching as Gimli's scowl deepened. Aragorn administered his treatment, and the Elf winced. The most that Aragorn could do was to cleanse him of blood. He had been injured by the Enemy and by their dark weapons. Nothing could heal those wounds, except by Elvish skill. He thought then of Elrond, lord of Rivendell, and of how he possessed the gift of healing fell wounds. If only those hands could cure him of his injuries, then some of his grief could be quelled.

Suddenly, Gimli let out a cry. Legolas and Aragorn looked towards the fire, startled. An old man, withered and bent, with gnarled fingers clutching a staff tottered towards them. A wide-brimmed hat veiled his eyes from sight; Legolas shivered. He trembled not from the cold but from a darker knowledge. Could it be? He was not Gandalf; he was not Mithrandir. Could it be Saruman, spent from his assault upon his broken body? If so, then what was the Istar doing in these woods? Saruman had no more strength or vigor left to assail him with; was his coming an ominous sign? Chill winds blew across the camp, and Legolas bit back a cry as it froze his naked back.

Aragorn stepped forward, ever courteous and dignified. "It is cold here in these woods. Well, father, what can we do for you? Come and be warm, if you are cold!"

Legolas wanted to grab Aragorn, to prevent him from advancing towards that wizened figure. He knew it had to be Saruman – Gandalf was dead, slain in Moria. Why did Aragorn persist in this peril, like that of a moth drawn towards a deadly flame? Lothlórien, ruined and faded came into his mind, and the Elf cast it aside, even as he watched the noble man approaching the stooped one. _"Do not touch him!"_ he cried out in his soul. _"Aragorn! Are you blind or deaf?"_ Unable to move quickly, Legolas could only sit there in dread.

But his worries were uncalled for.

The old man vanished – completely and without a trace of his whereabouts. As the two able companions wandered around the outskirts of their camp warily, Legolas glimpsed the moon disappearing into darkness. The night grew heavier, and Legolas found his breath short. What had befallen them just then? Their steeds cried out but not in fright; he heard them clearly. They were bolting, having dragged themselves free of their pickets. Where were they galloping to and towards whom? Why did they take flight?

"The horses! The horses!"

Gimli and Aragorn turned to him upon hearing him crying thus. A look of apprehension crossed Aragorn's face, adding years to his age. As for Gimli, the Dwarf glanced down in uncertainty. Those steeds belonged to Éomer, the leader of the Riders of Rohan. They were pledged to return them. What now of their promise? How could they return empty-handed, delivering the Rider into wrath and discipline? Would they not lose their honour?

"They are gone," said Aragorn after a long silence.

"What did we witness tonight?" Gimli asked, flickering his eyes hither and thither nervously. "Are we all mad, proclaiming ill visions?"

"We saw someone. But I know not who."

"I do," said Legolas, carefully rising to his feet. His body trembled even as he stood, gritting his teeth against sharp stabs of pain. "I recognized the old man. And it shook me terribly like a leaf on the open wind."

"Who did you see, Legolas?" Aragorn questioned.

"Saruman."

* * *

The stars dimmed in the sky, quenching their light and letting fall upon the world a dreary mantle. Thranduil turned around, exhaustion burning deep within his breast. For many long hours, Elrond and he discussed their choices in Legolas' situation. For Elrond, Thranduil could see how much the matter pained the Elf-lord, for it often brought back memories buried in a hurting heart; he had no intent of harming him in such a manner. Through their suffering, though, they cleaved their minds as one and sought for answers.

"Your son is well?"

It was a commonly asked question now, and Thranduil expected it. "He is healing within and progress is slow. Something just startled him; he now halts in his steps and is unwilling to walk forward. It is another wall, Elrond. Never have I seen him confronting so many horrors."

"A shadow hangs over him like an executioner's blade, so you have said."

"Yes. But the blade has not fallen yet, nor claimed his life."

Elrond strode away from the balcony and towards the inner walls of the abode, looking down. "He is holding the wielder of death back. You have a stubborn child, my friend." The Half-elf paused in his steps and glanced back, his face softening with pity. "Rest, my friend or partake of some food. It would not do for the father to fall as well as the son."

"If the son falls, the father carries him."

"Maybe but that is not your choice, yet. Come in, for shadows are stretched across the sky and we will see no more stars for tonight."

Thranduil followed Elrond, back into the warmly lit rooms of Rivendell. "He has found peace for a short while. It is a daily battle and a constant war."

"One that you cannot participate in."

"No. But he can fight it – I know he can."

Author's Extra Comments: _Gomen nasai_ for making you all wait! I find that each consecutive chapter gets harder and harder to write. Maybe that's because each one's getting longer and longer or the characters are getting more complex (esp. Legolas). Or maybe it's just because the fic itself is quite demanding on my brain and nerves. I personally consider Legolas as part of the reason – trying not to drag down the story with his self-pity and trying to drag him out of it is a 24-hour job! ;; I love Elves but their mentality is _soooo_ strange!

A bit more of the following of _TTT_ events and then the story should pick up its pace – in about two chapters! smiles Ã


	11. Continued Struggles, Unbeckoned Hope

Author's Note: One section of this fic borrows heavily from the chapter 'The White Rider' from The Two Towers in terms of dialogue – it is taken verbatim from the book. Also, for anyone who's a Tolkien newbie, there's a _big_ spoiler in this chapter. If you don't want to be spoiled, you don't have to read it. If you have already read the second book or just want to enjoy the fic, be my guest. I just don't want new readers to strangle me for this one, for it is the _ultimate _spoiler. Shadows Amongst the Leaves Chapter XI 

The Elven prince halted, lingering back as if suddenly barricaded from advancing forward. He knew what his fear was; it was the traitorous Istar. He had seen him ere he vanished, and his coming chilled the prince's blood like frost upon morning dew. His father walked behind him, ever a strong presence. During his desperate struggle to overthrow the darkness clamoring for his soul, their bonds were sundered. Legolas felt the separation, his hand sliding out of his father's, and he fell into shadows that shrouded him like a cage. Terrified, he met that force with his own and found it beyond his strength.

His father, Thranduil, could only watch in horror as he battled in vain. He had long since lost his light and all that encompassed it, thereby giving him a disadvantage against his weaknesses. The Elven-king stood there, his gaze fiery against all who dared to ensnare him and his son. It was the pride and glory of the noble blood of Northern Mirkwood, and Legolas drew strength from his father's courage. In a time of evil and despair, one could stand firm and proud against darkness – it was all one could do.

Horror and wrath mingled into one telling expression. This was his father; he was his son. Legolas felt the sharp claws of shadows raking his body, and the Elf screamed, lashing out at his foes. They scattered, laughing eerily at him. Weary, the prince fell to his knees. Strength and anger left him, leaving behind a fragile shell instead of the warrior soul that he once possessed.

He needed someone's aid. He could not refuse it anymore.

_"Legolas, are you so distressed that violence is the only way you seek?"_

The Elf raised his eyes, alert. He recognized that voice – Aragorn? As if heeding the cry, he arose and stood, staring at the dark expanse of sky above him. "Aragorn? Do you hear me?" Already, he had a sense of courage returning to his empty heart, and Legolas continued speaking. The wraiths of his fear, seeing him thus, retreated and vanished, for they no longer held stronghold over their victim. Leaving the last notes of their chilling cackles behind, they left the Elf standing alone in darkness.

Legolas continued to speak, his words flowing over themselves like streams running alongside valleys. Every so often, he would pause, as if speech were rendered useless to him but he soon resumed. As he spoke, unerringly and with a swifter tongue, he felt the beginning thralls of pain seizing him. Every word he let loose tore open a wound, and soon blood flowed down his body. It was his martyrdom, saying what he held secret for so long.

It was time.

That obstacle he overcame and conquered fully. Without the aid of his father's vigilance and Aragorn's concern, he would not have been able to step forward. Legolas realized his pride and what a downfall he would have met, if he had not listened and heeded his friend's voice. For that, he was forever grateful.

But now, he encountered a new challenge. There was yet another barrier, another wall. How many more did he have to face and destroy? Would it take his whole life to do so? And how many more fears and occult knowledge would he unearth during his struggles?

Maybe it was unwise to ask questions for now.

"Awake, my friend! My watch is over and the horses have not returned. Come, up on your feet, my good Elf! For we have much searching to do this morning." Aragorn said, shaking Legolas out of his slumber. The Ranger's words pierced through the prince's unconsciousness, dragging him out of rest.

"Well, we see who is the last one up!" said Gimli, staring down at the awakening Elf. "Although your sleep this time soothes my heart, for this is your first pleasant rest since we have met!"

Legolas, his eyes open whether awake or asleep, adjusted to the dim light of dawn, and soon he found himself speaking to his companions. As he spoke, he remembered the events of the night before. They had seen Saruman in Fangorn. The wizard had not harmed them – would not be able to, Legolas knew. He had drained all of the Istari's strength in that battle of wills and paid a dire price for it. But Saruman had vanished, like smoke in a fierce wind. Troubled, the Elf unloosed his tongue.

"So the horses are gone, and we owe Éomer his pledge. Aragorn, what say you to last night's events?"

"You said that you saw Saruman, which I do not disbelieve. And yet, he did no harm to us, and that is a troubling thought. Our mounts are gone, yes. We must walk then in our search, for Merry and Pippin are still to be found. My friend, can you walk?"

"No. I could stand, which is as much as my body would allow me at this time."

Aragorn smiled. "Then you are healing."

Legolas returned the smile, for it was Aragorn who pulled him out of his internal turmoil. "Yes, I am. Even if it is slow progress, it has started. After many a night, I see some semblance of hope."

"Hope often comes when darkness falls, son of Thranduil. You were strong, Legolas, in saying what befell you at the hands of the Orcs. It was too terrible a secret to keep within oneself, and to share it is the only way to relieve your pain. It is like lancing a wound to drain the venom."

"You speak often of healing, Aragorn. It is in your bearing, I should think."

The Ranger nodded before turning aside to the ashes of their burnt out fire. "It is in my hands, Legolas. I have already tended to your wounds, although the healing of them belongs to Elvish hands like that of Elrond. The only injuries that I cannot mend are those are within your soul, for they are in your heart and I cannot delve that deeply."

His scars within. Legolas knew full well what the man meant. There were still agonies gnawing away at him, seeping their poison into his soul even as he resisted against their wiles. The Orcs had done more than just bruise and beat him – they had nearly mortally corrupted him. If that had happened, then what? Shuddering inwardly at the implications if he had fallen into their desires, the Elf let his head hang. His madness the night before was a manifestation of his frustrations and wounded pride – it was that simple. It was that simple for the enemy to break down his barriers, should he let those interfere with his recovery again.

He could not warrant that it was over, yet.

But he had wasted too much time in thinking, and they had wasted minutes in talking. Aragorn looked back at him and spoke. "Dawn comes upon us, and morning is ever drawing closer. The sun will soon arise and we will miss our advantage. Come, Legolas! I will carry you, if you do not protest."

What was the use of protesting when he could not force himself to walk? "Carry me, then, Aragorn. You will find me light compared to your fellow men, and lighter still for my past torments."

The Ranger gently gripped him around the shoulders and in the crook of his knees, staggering slightly as he stood. "You are lighter than my fellow men, Legolas but not by much! If I were not mistaken, it seems you are already better! You weighed less when I met you with the Riders of Rohan."

"At least I am lighter than a Dwarf. Is that not so, friend Gimli?"

Gimli gazed at him, his anger playful in his eyes and voice. "I wish for you not to use me as an example of weights, Master Legolas!"

"But what other comparisons are more suitable than an Elf and a Dwarf?"

Aragorn laughed. "Come now, my friends! Although your bantering is like former times, we have serious work to do! Let us leave all humour aside until we have found our friends or signs of them!"

As the three companions approached and searched the wide plains around Fangorn, Legolas felt a dark shadow encroaching upon his heart. Aragorn and Gimli found nothing around the tree, and headed away from it towards a dead watch-fire, with only ashes to mark its nightly burning. The Elf glanced at where they stood. They were close to the place where he awoke, cloaked and disoriented. He did not want to be here. And yet, he had to be here for the sake of his friends, Merry and Pippin. Where they had fled to he knew not; this was his reason for being with his companions.

"Legolas, are you all right? You grow tense."

So even Aragorn had felt the tension in his body. "This was their camp that night," said Legolas, sighing. He did not wish to say anymore. Already, images lingered in his mind; Legolas shut his eyes.

"I am sorry if it brings back ill thoughts, my friend. But we cannot overlook these grounds, lest we miss some tracks or signs of Merry and Pippin. You said they had fled, and that the Orc camp stayed close to Fangorn. So it is here where we must look."

"Master Elf, it would be wise to open your eyes. We need your sight for these times."

"He suffers from memories past, Gimli. It is not so simple to leave behind agony and remembrances of screams and cruel laughter. Although, Legolas," the Ranger said, slightly tightening his fingers around the Elf's shoulder, "you must open your eyes. You cannot hide forever from your fears."

"Even during my healing, I am scathed. Will it that my mind shall bolt out these horrors!"

"You have told us of your torment, and we will bear them with you until you are healed. Do not fear, son of Thranduil! For it is now morning and your captors are slain and burnt. They cannot harm or jeer at you anymore, for now they are carrion for the birds! Take heart, Legolas!"

Forever hiding from his fears. This he now did, frightened at how near he was to where the Orcs used him for sport. Their last ritual of cruelty and violence, plundering from him whatever he had left. Saruman, waning in his power, had watched. He remembered that, drawing that image from the depths of his mind. The Istar had seen him, lying there in agony and shame, crying out in Elvish as he suffered; for his use of his own tongue, the Orcs brutalized him with savage hatred until he lost all knowledge of sight and hearing. He remembered all ills now, and the fear intensified.

"Take heart, Legolas!" said Aragorn, repeating himself. "You have not fallen, and we shall not shun you. If you deny your eyes the place of your torment, you will never seek triumph!"

"I hear your words, Aragorn but darkness draws near. I cannot force myself to look, even when I know you speak true!" So saying, the prince kept his eyes shut, shielding out all light. He knew in doing so that he was yet returning to his memories. They were memories that should have been long forgotten but how does one shed days of wretchedness and impending death? He healed slowly; that was the truth. But how does one forget atrocities like such? It was simple to tell one to release black thoughts – what if happened to the encourager?

Would that being still say the same?

Gimli grunted. "We cannot force him, Aragorn. And we cannot stay standing here! We must move on!"

"We must, Gimli, and that is the truth. I had thought that by telling us of his woes that Legolas would be more able to confront the place of his torture. Alas, I have seen falsely! There are many wounds left in his soul and many remembrances in his mind that could possibly never be healed or forgotten. Such are these dark times! But lead on, my friend! When a Man and an Elf are delayed, perhaps your stubborn race could call us to attention!"

Aragorn's steps shook him where he lay, and Legolas felt each rise and fall of pace comforting. Dark were his thoughts, as though his admission had not brought forth light. His friend had told him to weep but Legolas found no tears to shed. What he found, upon coming to this place, were dead Orcs, stamped out fires, and the ravages of battle. He dreaded the outskirts of Fangorn. Telling of his suffering had not lessened his fear, albeit it lightened his inner burden. The sighting of Saruman ran doubt through his mind, and the Elf trembled.

He still feared what he did not know.

"Hold there, Gimli! For I see something on the grass."

What was it that Aragorn saw? Was it a sign of Merry and Pippin? Opening his eyes, Legolas beheld Aragorn receiving a leaf from Gimli. The leaf was golden but already it started to age, turning brown on its edges and advancing slowly inward. He reflected on it, and suddenly knew what it was that Aragorn held. "A mallorn-leaf from Lothlórien!"

"Yes, Legolas," said Aragorn, looking down at him. "Your Elvish sight is needed, my friend."

"There are some scattered cords about," Gimli offered forth, "as well as this knife, which doubtlessly was used to cut them." As if proving his find, he held forth the ghastly weapon.

"An Orc blade," said Legolas, as he watched Gimli examine the handle. "The carvings and the blackness of their weapons is enough proof. They have used such on me to mark me as theirs."

"You were never theirs, son of Thranduil. Do not give yourself needless torment."

Aragorn was right – at least at this moment. He was free now, released from oppression and imminent death; why did he insist on bringing back dead shadows? Legolas knew why. His shadows had never died; always, he had had a fear of darkness. That was the way of Elves, unless the moon lit the sky with her soft radiance. That was why he despised caves, like that of Moria. But it was more than just black unknowns that frightened him – there was something else. Ever since the Orcs slaughtered his mother, also depriving him of more than a few friends, he had vowed to slay them without pause.

But ever since he had fallen captive to them, he could no longer see himself in the same light. What had befallen him now haunted his dreams, twisting them from their fair forms into withered ones. Any glimpse of anything Orcish betrayed his mind, letting loose a flow of horrid memories. Was he doomed to never forget those three days of nightmarish existence? And what of those three nights of torture? He had spoken, let some burdens fall but there always seemed to be more; when would there be none left?

"It had to be the hobbits, Aragorn."

"I believe so, Gimli. But I do not know whether both escaped or not. What I see here is one hobbit, either Merry or Pippin. An Orc carried him here, and one of the Riders slew the creature. Instead of escaping in a hurry, he simply cut his bonds and ate here for a while. Although, he did cut Legolas' bonds, did he not?"

"Master Legolas falls silent yet again," said Gimli, gazing towards the Elf.

"This place brings forth much dread. We have found signs – let us move on."

Legolas found his voice. "Where should we go next?"

"If they had wandered into Fangorn, we must go in there heedless of Celeborn's counsel. It is our duty to find them and to reunite our broken Fellowship. Legolas, you worried me with your sudden silence but at least now you speak."

"This place goes ill for me," said the Elf truthfully.

Aragorn shifted his weight, bringing the prince closer towards him. "You shall soon weary me out, Legolas! But let us not linger any longer. Forward into the forest!"

"We have seen more signs of our companions, Aragorn. Such tidings are kind."

"Footprints scattered nily-wily," Gimli said, looking back. The axe on his shoulder gleamed. "And yet, you said that they have moved from those places two days ago. It has been a long two days, Aragorn. We are not going to search the whole of Fangorn, are we?"

The Ranger nodded, resolution in his eyes. "We will, Gimli. Even if we must starve, we will find them. Our supplies will not last for much longer, I am afraid. And yet, we cannot abandon friends for food. Come, for I see some sunlight piercing through the roof of the forest."

"That is a welcome sight." Once in Fangorn, away from the outskirts, Legolas found it easier to release his memories. This was another forest but to the Elf, all woods were his kindred. Fangorn felt old; more aged than even Mirkwood the land of his father. Gimli dreaded being in a forest spoken of with ill repute but the Elf felt no evil – only wariness and anger. Where those emotions came from, he knew not. But could it be similar to the way he felt now? Had something wicked debased these woods, stripping these trees of their joy and pride? If so, Legolas could relate, for he suffered an equal fate.

Aragorn walked steadily, his sword slapping against his thigh. Behind him, Gimli trod along, weighted down with his coat of mail and his axe. Legolas watched as the forest diminished; a large face of rock towered above them, with steps leading towards a high shelf overlooking the land. Sunlight streamed down, piercing through the clouds. Looking at the rays illuminating the forest and the face of stone, Legolas felt relieved. This was the first true light he had seen since his capture.

He could truly revel in it, for however short a time.

"Let us go up, Aragorn and Legolas!"

And as if his short stature made no difference, Gimli son of Gloin started. He gained speed and Aragorn and Legolas watched with laughter in their eyes.

"Come, Aragorn! Make haste! It shall not be said that a Dwarf beat a Man and an Elf in a competition of steps!"

"Ah, but you cannot add yourself into that, Legolas." Smiling, Aragorn stepped onto the stone stairs. But they were already far from Gimli, who now stood there watching with amusement.

Legolas scowled. "So an Elf and a Man admit defeat to a Dwarf."

"Say nothing when you do not walk in the contest, Master Elf!" Gimli retorted as they approached. "Knowing your kind, though, you would have beaten me by far if you had use of your legs."

"The hobbits were here, although I cannot name these strange tracks." Aragorn, shifting his weight again to bear Legolas' weight, glanced around. Legolas gazed at the surrounding forest – what a mighty sea of trees! Sunlight fell upon him and its warmth was comforting.

He liked it here.

"We have come far. If our Fellowship had not broken apart, we could have come here. It is a pleasant place, full of light and trees. But perhaps we all have separate paths to take, although I know not where mine is."

"It will come to you in its own time, Legolas. Do not fret about what is not yet unveiled."

Gimli stood, a small pillar of strength and grumpiness. "This path I did not want to take, that is what I say."

"And yet here we stand, my friend," said Legolas, gazing out. "Look, for I see someone!"

Aragorn's hands suddenly tightened, and Legolas felt his tenseness. Beside them, Gimli leaned forward as if to strain his eyes. "Where?" the Dwarf asked in impatience. "I am no Elf!"

Legolas raised his arm, pointing down towards where the steps began near the inner fringe of the forest. "There! It is he!" What was Saruman doing here? They met him once, only the night before. Was he back to wreak havoc and destruction? Was his potency back in full force? A cold chill settled into his being, and the Elf shivered.

"He is approaching!"

A man stooped and bent, with his hand on a staff. There was no difference, except that he wore grey. Saruman had worn white the night he came upon them. Could it be? But after so many deceptions, the prince kept his own counsel within his heart. The Istari were mighty, and Saruman had grown crafty in his ways. Legolas kept his sight fixed upon the aged figure with consternation. Gimli had his axe out, as if to menace the approaching man and Aragorn held no weapon. Legolas, unable to walk but able to stand, found that the Ranger refused to let go of him. Still, Legolas doubted he could do much. He had no arrows in his quiver and his knife was useless if he could not walk, much less run.

Suddenly, the old man glanced up at them. Legolas could not see his eyes, for a wide-brimmed hat shaded them. All that he could see was the man's beard, which was grey and the tip of his nose. A grey beard – Saruman's beard was white! Even as Aragorn and Gimli grew tenser, Legolas felt apprehension mingled with curiosity stirring in his breast. This could not be Saruman!

"Well met indeed, my friends. I wish to speak to you. Will you come down, or shall I come up?"

Before they could even reply, the wizened figure started towards them. His pace quickened on the steps, and Legolas heard Aragorn's sharp intake of breath. Gimli, suddenly fierce, sprang towards the steps. Just then, the old man spoke. His voice was calm but there was a tone of command that Legolas knew well.

It was the same tone his father used for a subject.

"Master Dwarf, pray take your hand from your axe-haft, till I am up! You will not need such arguments."

Gimli released his axe; the weapon fell with a harsh clatter to the stone beneath his feet. Legolas' eyes widened. His friend obeyed that command without protest! The old man, seemingly ageless and young in movement, now climbed the last of the steps. All weariness had left him; he was no longer as old as he seemed. Legolas caught a glimpse of white beneath his grey rags, and felt again that mark of uncertainty. Gimli breathed aloud, as if in distress or rage.

"Well met, I say again!" The old man glanced at each one of them. "And what may you be doing in these parts? An Elf, a Man, and a Dwarf. Two are clad in elvish fashion, while one bears the garb of the House of Eorl. No doubt there is a tale worth hearing behind it all. Such things are not often seen here."

Aragorn spoke, always noble with his words. "You speak as one that knows Fangorn well. Is that so?"

"Not well; that would be the study of many lives. But I come here now and again."

"Might we know your name, and then hear what it is that you have to say to us? The morning passes, and we have an errand that will not wait."

The old man spoke softly, his voice mesmerizing and nearly hypnotic. "As for what I wished to say, I have said it: What may you be doing, and what tale can you tell of yourselves? As for my name!" A soft and drawn-out laugh slipped out of the man's being, like rain upon parched earth. Startled, Legolas stared at him. Who was this person? Saruman? He wore white beneath his guise of grey! But the Istari would have slain them all by now, instead of engaging in banter and talk! "My name! Have you not guessed it already? You have heard it before, I think. Yes, you have heard it before. But come now, what of your tale?"

Could he be Saruman? Or could he be Gandalf – Mithrandir? Those were the only two names Legolas knew; the only two Istari that he had knowledge of. As he drew himself out of his reflections, he noticed the deadening silence. Aragorn and Gimli had not spoken a word of reply.

"There are some who would begin to doubt whether your errand is fit to tell," the old man continued, still leaning on his staff. "Happily I know something of it. You are tracking the footsteps of two young hobbits, I believe. Yes, hobbits. Don't stare, as if you had never heard the strange name before. You have, and so have I. Well, they climbed up here the day before yesterday; and they met someone that they did not expect." Shuffling from foot to foot, the wizened figure continued his speech, even as Legolas watched in silence. "Does that comfort you? And now you would like to know where they were taken? Well, well, maybe I can give you some news about that. But why are we standing? Your errand, you see, is no longer as urgent as you thought. Let us sit down and be more at ease."

So their friends were safe and sheltered? Was it so? Legolas kept his sight on the old man, even when he turned away from them and strode with slow steps towards a pile of stones and rocks. If he thought to recline there, the Elf thought bemused, it would give him an aching back. Gimli stooped to retrieve his axe, and Legolas noticed that Aragorn breathed more easily; it was as if an enchantment had been withdrawn. As the Dwarf gripped his axe-haft, Legolas worried for the old man. He seemed harmless.

It was obvious that Gimli did not think so.

"Saruman!" The Dwarf moved swiftly, approaching the calm figure with his weapon ready. "Speak! Tell us where you have hidden our friends! What have you done with them?" When the old man refused to reply, Gimli stepped closer. Legolas could hear rage in his voice. "And what did you do to my friend, the Elf? What cruelty did you afflict him with? Speak, or I will make a dint in your hat that even a wizard will find it hard to deal with!"

What happened next astonished the Elf, as it did Aragorn and Gimli. Evading Gimli's threatening blow, the wizened figure leapt on to a rock, casting aside his grey rags. As he did so, he seemed to grow tall and mighty, august in his calmness. His garb gleamed white, and Legolas saw then that he was not Saruman. There was something different about this man. He could sense a kinder presence; a presence that he would willingly embrace. Gimli tried to swing at him again but the old man raised his staff and the axe fell to the ground.

Gimli retreated as if scorched by his own weapon.

There was no uncertainty left. Legolas knew whom it was he laid eyes on, and joy sprang overwhelmingly into his heart. After all of their despair, they found hope – or it found them! Moria was not his tomb, as it was never meant to be! There was a gleam of light on the horizon, and they had nearly overlooked it in their suspicion and fright. He unloosed his tongue, crying out in Elvish.

"Mithrandir! Mithrandir!"


	12. A Path Finally Taken

**Shadows Amongst the Leaves**

Chapter XII 

How did Mithrandir survive the fall in Moria? Was the Balrog slain? Seeing the Istar clad in white, elevated in power and mightier than before, Legolas felt excitement sweeping swiftly through his blood. Aragorn and Gimli stared in amazement, and the Elf saw that the Ranger was on the verge of tears. After all that had happened, could he really blame him? The Dunedan held their company together with his scant knowledge of Gandalf's plans, ere the scattering at Amon Hen. And now, their leader had returned, shining like a pure flame.

"Legolas, Aragorn, and Gimli. It has been a while." Gandalf sprang lithely down the rock, landing lightly on the ground. His staff he now held next to his side, and the wizard hastened towards them. Gimli, having retrieved his axe with cautious hands, ran alongside Gandalf.

"It has been many months since we have seen you, Gandalf," spoke Gimli, eyes raised in reverence. "It is good to see you back."

"Gandalf!" Without releasing Legolas, Aragorn strode forward. The look of wonder on his face was glorious to behold. "Gandalf! So you have returned to us in the time of our need!"

The Istar smiled, and joy shone in his eyes. "So I have, Aragorn son of Arathorn. And I have returned just in time, for there is much to be done." As he spoke these words, Gandalf turned his eyes to Legolas, and the Elf felt his piercing gaze. A somber mood fell over the wizard, and he seemed to fall deep into thought, upon which Legolas pondered his behavior. "And much has befallen you, Legolas son of Thranduil. It has been many a dark day and night for you."

So Mithrandir knew his troubles. Upon realizing that, the Elf felt himself strangely calm and quiet within. The Istar knew all that had happened to him? Then he need not speak forth about his calamities, his turmoil, and his anguish? Reaching out, he touched the wizard's shoulder as if to rouse him from his musing. "Gandalf, it is I. You know then, what has ailed me for so long. Can you do something about it?"

Bushy eyebrows rose as if in question, and the Istar's dark eyes gleamed. "Yes, perhaps it is in my power to deliver you from some of this darkness that enshrouds you, my good Elf. Come, Aragorn and Gimli. Let us rest upon these stones – you may release Legolas, Aragorn. These stones will do his bones no harm."

As Gimli sat, his axe held in both hands across his lap, Aragorn stooped down. Gently, he laid Legolas down on the ground, resting his back against the wall of the shelf. Grateful for his aid, Legolas grabbed Aragorn's arm, smiling as the man glanced at him in surprise. "Much thanks, Aragorn. If you should ever come again to Mirkwood after all of this, I will laud you as one of my most honored friends." Gimli scowled jealously across from him, and the Elf bit back his laughter. "You are not forgotten, friend Gimli. Both of you have cared for me like brothers. Without you, I would have died earlier."

"Yes, Legolas," said Gandalf as he reclined next to the Elven prince, "you would have perished of your grief and self-pity if you had not been found. Fate is ever watching over you, even if it has taken you towards paths you did not expect. But enough of talking – what has Saruman done to you?"

"Many ill things, and some that I cannot say again unless my heart bleeds."

"But you will speak, my young prince. I know of your troubles but I cannot aid you unless you let the words spill forth from your own lips. I do not like to use force, and I am unwilling to look within your soul to uproot Saruman's vile deeds."

Legolas sighed, intertwining his slender fingers together. The patterns they made interested the Elf, and it allowed him to focus on something else while he spoke of cruelty and pain. "He bound me to a spell, appearing as an Orc when my will falls weak." As his voice faltered, he noticed not the expressions crossing those of his companions – looks of shock, horror, and anger. Gandalf sighed heavily next to him but did not interrupt his silence. "I have a question to ask of you, Gandalf: did Orcs start from Elves? Saruman told me it was so."

"Do not listen to his counsel, Legolas! He is known for his lies."

"No, Gimli. Saruman is crafty and full of wiles but he will not lie about past histories. It is the truth, son of Thranduil. Melkor held captive many Elves – those called the Avari, dark elves in those days – and corrupted them through torture and darkness, similar to what you have suffered. But their suffering was greater and tragic, twisting them into what we now call foul and cruel. I know what it is you fear but you must release it."

"I cannot slay what used to be my kin!" Legolas said, hearing the frustrated rage in his voice. "I only killed because I had to to live. I lost friends and family to them; that was why I took hold of bow and knife. But now, since I know of their origin, how could I slay them, knowing that I shed innocent blood?"

"They are no longer innocent, although it is also with great pity that I slay them. It was not of their choice to be born upon Middle-earth; rather, created as mighty armies for Melkor and his lieutenant, Sauron, whom we now fight. You cannot allow this truth to seal your spirit, Legolas. For that is the reason why Saruman told you this – he seeks to demoralize us, to weaken our Fellowship. He started with you, strongest and eldest of us all, excepting I, and his words have done their deed. You are strong and wise, Legolas but you harbour many fears and insecurities, which my former peer used to his advantage ere he left you. It is well that you have asked, for now I see what I must break."

"Is it in your power to break it?" Aragorn asked, leaning forward. "Are you now mightier than Saruman?"

Gandalf nodded. "I am now Gandalf the White. Saruman has renounced his wisdom, and therefore has fallen out of rank and order. I am what he used to be before pride and folly poisoned his mind. As for breaking this curse, I will first see how strong of a hold Saruman has on him. Legolas son of Thranduil, lay your trust in me."

"I have never doubted in you, Mithrandir."

"That is well, then." Legolas started as Gandalf laid a hand upon his breast, above his heart. "Do not be afraid! Your heart is the stronghold of your soul, my dear Elf. It is here where your turmoil stirs, and it is here where I can unbind the chains Saruman has wrought. Do not be afraid!" The wizard fell silent, speaking no incantations or uttering any language. It occurred to Legolas that in his mightier form, Gandalf had no need to mutter nonsense; did not Saruman cast his curse without any strange utterances? It perhaps all laid in the power bestowed; only lesser beings would resort to uttering tongues for their craft.

Suddenly, a searing pain burned in his breast. Legolas flinched, only to feel the Istar's hand holding him down. No sweat fell off of Gandalf's brow, and the wizard did not tremble. Some strong force laid its grasp upon Legolas; he could feel it with intensifying awe. As the minutes went by, swift and unceasing, for time was such, Legolas felt many things. Light, raw and pure from Gandalf's power, surged through his withering and tortured soul, rushing like a flood through the darkness. As the black shadows fell back, battered into defeat by the Istar, another greater darkness loomed forward. It was grand and tall in its cold majesty, claiming dominion over the Elf's being.

Both forces grappled with each other within him, and Legolas gasped as it soon manifested as physical pain. Yet, the agony was small, for Mithrandir laid his other hand on to his brow as to quell thoughts of doubt. Still, no weariness crossed the wizard's brow; his eyes gleamed fiercely. Aragorn and Gimli watched in concerned silence. Legolas bit back a cry as the darkness roiled forth, sending spears of pain throughout his body. Gandalf gazed at him, reassuring him. Without speaking, the wizard sent forth yet another wave of light; Mithrandir needed no words of command.

"Is he succeeding?" asked Gimli, his eyes wide with consternation. "It seems to be hurting him."

"I would not doubt Gandalf," Aragorn said, watching with just as much attention. "He is now the White. He will know how to shatter this foul vise that imprisons Legolas in madness and guilt."

Light and dark fought for his soul. Saruman and Gandalf, rival Istari, now bent on taking what was rightfully theirs. Saruman laid claim to him ere Gandalf returned but Mithrandir knew him ere the fallen wizard cursed him. The dark pillar within him struck back and the light tore something away; Legolas sighed deeply, as if content. Gandalf nearly sprang back, like as if recoiling from a viper's bite. Aragorn and Gimli rose to their feet as one. Legolas felt something dark removed, abolished from existence.

But the black pillar within still remained, taunting him.

"What happened, Gandalf?" asked Aragorn, coming to the wizard's side for assistance.

"I found the source of his curse, and battled with it till both of us knew each other's strengths and flaws. I only managed to break the part that would twist Legolas' mind and ways into Orc behavior but I could not remove the rest of that bane. He would still look like one, should his will fall. Saruman was clever; indeed crafty. He buried that curse deeply within Legolas' spirit and heart. It is not easy to remove, unless force is used; that would render him slain by my hands." The wizard turned to him, fixing him with his piercing gaze. "It is in your strength and might, Legolas my dear Elf, that this curse could be broken. You must resume your strength."

"And how shall I do that?"

"This fear of slaying Orcs is where Saruman holds his highest position in that dark tower of yours. You must surmount it, my good prince. You are still one of the Fellowship, and there are still battles to be fought ere the Ring is destroyed. You will take up your bow and knife again in due time. But first, you must be healed of your wounds, for an injured archer does us no good. You shall return to Rivendell, to the house of Elrond. There, the lord awaits, along with your father."

Astonished, Legolas would have sprung to his feet if it were not for his injuries. "My father? What is he doing out of Mirkwood, Gandalf? Do you know something about him?"

"Your father came to Rivendell to speak with Elrond. My knowledge tells me that it concerns you, Legolas. For although your father is known as the Elf-king who hoards his treasure and delights in his wine since the day Bilbo Baggins partook of the quest to recover the Dwarves' riches, he has now refused them all. It is good to see that a miser could cherish his children, even if it took severity to do so. He has not slept till the night before, so worried was he for your health. If it were not for Elrond's gentle admonishment, your father would have stayed awake to see you home safe and well."

Legolas heard Gandalf's words with a strange emotion stirring within his breast. His father, Thranduil was the reason he held on to life. If his father still dwelled in Imladris when he returned, there would be much talk and weeping; the Elf knew this. He did not know if he would shed tears but he knew Thranduil would. His father had left Mirkwood – when had the elderly Elf done that? He still remembered seeing his father sitting on the throne, counting his jewels and handing the sacks to his subjects. And if the king was not doing that, he drank himself to excess. Legolas remembered his many nights of isolation, either in his room or at the archery grounds. Or walking amidst the trees when he could lose his guards, for the young prince did not like the strict rules accompanying a royal life. Those days were lonely, without the company of his brothers and his father.

It was different when his mother still lived.

"Overcome your fears, my good prince. We shall need you when time beckons."

"It is simple to say, Gandalf. Alas! I wish to break this hideous curse but it questions my beliefs and tears at my heart. To slay ones forced into moral depravity and slavery – ones who were my kin! Where is the justice in that? But then if I do not, I will force myself towards a swifter death. Which path must I choose?"

"That is for you to find out, Legolas," said the Istari kindly. "Legolas, look into the sky. What do you see?"

Shading his eyes with his hand, the Elf glanced out into the open. At first, he saw nothing but soon a shape took form. Squinting his eyes against the sunlight, Legolas glimpsed a bird, soaring high into the sky. As it drew ever closer, he knew what it was he saw. "An eagle, flying swiftly as if in competition with the wind. Its wingspan is long; stretched out it would cover the Sun. Gandalf, do you know anything about this?" he asked as he lowered his hand from his brow and gazed at the wizard.

"He is Gwaihir the Windlord. He is the lord of Eagles, young Legolas. He saved me from the deeps of Moria – something I shall speak of, Aragorn and Gimli. As for you, my good Elf, he shall deliver you safely to the house of Elrond. Look, for here he comes!"

Gwaihir circled above their heads, lowering himself so gently upon the precarious shelf that none of the companions felt any tremor of protesting stone. "Ah, my old friend!" said the lord of Eagles to the Istari as he balanced himself on the edge of the shelf. His way of speaking delighted Legolas, who was fond of all creatures save foul and cruel ones. "It has not been long since I have taken you out of Moria, and yet here is another who needs my aid! He is an Elf, as the Lady Galadriel told me ere I left."

"He is, my good friend," answered Gandalf, his eyes merry. "Is the weather pleasant?"

"You see the sun, do you not?" Gwaihir jested back, flapping his wings once in a while. "Come now, friend. Where is the Elf in need of my wings?"

As the rest of the company turned to face him, Legolas braced himself for what had to be done. Using the wall of stone behind him, he slowly rose to his feet, grimacing every so often as pain numbed his senses. When Aragorn stepped forward, eager to help, the Elf shook his head. This was his battle against his body; it was his turn to surmount a small difficulty. Agony upon agony pierced his mind but the prince refused to lose this fight. He would not lose to himself – not now; not when it counted.

Upon standing, he caught the smiles on his friends' faces. He had triumphed! This battle he won by his own strength! Facing the majestic eagle before him, Legolas spoke. "Gwaihir, lord of Eagles, it is I whom you must send forth to Rivendell. I am Legolas Greenleaf, son of Thranduil. The Lady Galadriel told you my name, did she not?"

"She did, Legolas Greenleaf. You speak wondrously fair, and that is no surprise for all Elves have a gentle and noble tongue. Are you ready to bid your friends farewell for a short time, young princeling?"

A young princeling, indeed! Legolas would have laughed merrily at that, if it were not for his soon departure. Aragorn strode forth until he stood across from the Elf. Instead of embracing him, he laid a hand upon his shoulder. "Take care of yourself, Legolas," the Ranger said, his expression kind. "When you come back to us, you will see that you have been sorely missed."

Without speaking, Legolas laid his own hand upon the man's shoulder. For a while, words refused to come, so overwhelmed was he with emotion. But something needed to be said, for without Aragorn's stern counsel and aid, he would have come to grief. "Farewell, Aragorn. I cannot thank you enough for your help."

"You do not need to thank me too much, son of Thranduil. You are strong – remember that. Do not overwhelm yourself with dark tidings, Legolas." Aragorn finished speaking, only to look behind him and laugh. Legolas smiled, knowing the reason. "Ah! Seems like Gimli does not want to go unnoticed!"

The Dwarf glanced at Aragorn in annoyance. "He will not forget me! We are bonded soul to soul!"

Legolas removed his hand from Aragorn's shoulder; Aragorn did likewise and stepped aside. Gimli gazed at the Elf, a fierce fire in his eyes. Ignoring the pain, Legolas forced his body to kneel so that he met Gimli face to face. The Dwarf smiled, joy brightening his usually dark visage. "Well, Master Elf! Seems like we will be parted for a while! Take care of yourself, do you hear? I do not want my friend to come back lesser than he was ere he left!"

"You take care of yourself too, friend Gimli," Legolas replied back softly. "I will come back, hopefully. I just need to find my own path, for it is ever eluding me."

"You cannot elude me, that is all that I know, Elf!"

"Nay! You speak false, Master Dwarf! As an Elf, I would outrun you in any contest!"

Laughing, Gimli released his axe and embraced Legolas. The Elf did not resist, for this was what Gimli wanted and what he needed. "Gimli, you are crushing my ribs! Do not forget that one is still healing!" As if scalded, the Dwarf released his hold; Aragorn laughed. Shaking his head, Legolas returned the embrace. "I do not wish to leave you in an ill mood, my friend. Take this as a memory of our friendship, for you are now Elf-friend and I care not for the mocking of my kin. Take it as my promise to return, for I am still a member of this Fellowship and I will not abandon my friends ere the task is complete."

"Thank you, friend Legolas."

"As much to you," said Legolas before he stood. Gandalf came into his sight, and the Elf knew that the Istar had moved, rather than to let him risk injury for his behalf. The wizard stepped forward, a gentle and fatherly smile creasing his weathered face. With the sun shining her light upon him, Gandalf shone like the flame of Anor that he was. Gentleness, humility, and power – this was Mithrandir.

"May you soon find peace, Legolas son of Thranduil. You were not born to suffer anguish; rather, you shall stand tall and proclaim victory. Darkness will have no dominion over you if you choose to battle instead of cower. I bestow my hopes and blessings upon you. Carry him swiftly ere this night, Gwaihir my friend!"

The eagle, having waited patiently for the companions to say farewell to the Elf, flapped his wings and lifted himself into the air. "I shall do just that, my friend! Come now! Move aside, for I do not wish to flatten you all into the stone or into the forest below! As for Legolas, stand where you are!"

Legolas stood as straight as he could, unbending like an arrow shaft aimed for the sun. Gandalf, Aragorn, and Gimli retreated towards the wall of the shelf, pressing themselves flat against the stone. With a cry ringing like a trumpet blast, Gwaihir raised himself aloft, gaining speed with his mighty wings. Circling once, he flew above the towering rock face, only to immediately wheel around. Wind blew past Legolas, and the Elf blinked, hair flying into his eyes. His bow and quiver were strapped to his back; his silver-hafted long knife was in his belt. With another cry, the eagle seized him by his talons and lifted him high above the shelf.

The land soon sped past him. Legolas could not see his friends, or much detail of the forest below him. Trees seemed nothing more than a mere verdant plain at his height. Gwaihir released yet another cry of triumph, letting it ring above the clouds and into the sun.

Exhausted, Legolas closed his eyes and slept.

"Will he be well, Gandalf?" Aragorn asked, looking into the sky where the eagle had taken his friend. "It is far from Rivendell, is it not?"

The Istar lowered his eyes. "He will be there ere this evening, Aragorn. You do not need to worry for his sake, for he has taken it upon himself to solve his own troubles. As for us, we have our own to deal with, and soon. But for the while, I see you have questions to ask and answers to hear. Come then – speak!"

"Will he break the curse himself, Gandalf?" asked Gimli innocently.

As Aragorn watched, the wizard sighed and glanced again at the sky. Gwaihir was gone; the lord of Eagles flew swiftly, like the wind. Legolas was with him; he had nothing to fear. "Will he, Gandalf? For this curse of his lays a burden upon his heart."

"He will, if he so chooses. It is his own choice now."

* * *

"Elrond? Do you sense something amiss in Imladris?" Thranduil questioned, concerned for his friend. The raven-haired Half-elf sat at the banquet table in the great hall, his face turned away from the music and gaiety of his fellow Elves. Without warning, he leapt to his feet, turning to the Elf-king. What expression he had Thranduil could not name, for it was not fear or concern. What troubled the Elf-lord? "Something is drawing close – it is like a premonition in my heart."

"By what do you mean, Elrond?"

The Elf-lord strode out of the banquet hall, swift in his steps and hurried in his pace. Not wishing to leave his friend behind, Thranduil followed. The music from within soon dimmed as both of the lords hastened out towards the corridor, where open space allowed them fresh air and privacy. And still, Elrond did not speak.

"Elrond? What troubles you?"

"Nothing troubles me, my friend. Rather, I feel like as if someone is calling me. As if someone is telling me to be alert. And yet, it is not for peril. It is for something important and urgent."

Intrigued, Thranduil could not help but ask. "Something urgent? This would not have anything to do with concerning Gwaihir the Windlord, could it? It is the only matter of concern that you have unveiled as of late." It was the only news that the Elven king was aware of. It very well might have been the only thought Thranduil kept to himself, for it spoke of events beyond them. Could it have to do with his son?

As if his words were what Elrond needed, the lord of Imladris turned on one heel and gazed at him. Realization dawned upon the Half-elf and Thranduil saw the light of understanding bright upon his face. "It very well might be, Thranduil!" exclaimed Elrond as he strode over. "My heart bids me wait until dusk."

"Where should we stand, my friend?"

"The same as usual, Thranduil. The balcony where you last pondered your son's plight."

* * *

This time, when he dreamt, he found himself upon a dimly lit path. Darkness still surrounded him, as if unwilling to leave but Legolas realized that the only way to banish it was to find a way out. Already, this path took him past several desecrated fields, places of wars and battles declared in the songs of Men. Elves never glorified in battle, although they partook in them when their own livelihoods were at stake. Legolas glanced sadly at the abandoned places of glory long forgotten and continued walking.

His father now stayed a distance from him; he knew why. Once he had decided to fight for himself, his father had simply released him to his own will. It was the way of living – it was the road to maturity. Legolas considered himself mature in his own right but in comparison to other Elves, he was young. That was why his brother scorned him; it was the reason why his mother loved him. It was also the reason why Thranduil now aided him, albeit from so faraway. Being young in soul and mind made him vulnerable to the harshness of life but Legolas would have it no other way.

He did not want to be jaded and weary, forever thinking of escape.

Deep in thought, he strode down the path, which led him over sloping hills towards a hidden horizon. Raising his eyes, the Elf gazed steadily at the faint light in the distance. It would still be a constant war, incessant battles upon incessant battles for his soul. He wanted to be free of this shade, these wraiths that haunted him. It would be a long walk, requiring him to forget about trivial matters. If he forsook them, his journey would be easier to bear; if not, he could easily stumble and fall.

Legolas did not want that.

Smiling grimly, the Elven prince continued. Dusk was soon to fall even in his dreams, and Legolas had no intention of waiting for twilight. Placing his hope in that faint remembrance of things past, he walked on, taking no respite for it was not yet his time to rest.

He had much to do.

* * *

"So now our horses will bear us to Meduseld, as we promised Éomer," said Aragorn as he urged his steed closer to Gandalf. The Istar rode upon Shadowfax, a swift and pale beauty. Gimli clung on to the horse's mane tightly, as if afraid of falling, and the Ranger laughed. "Gimli son of Gloin, you surprise me! Has not riding Arod taught you anything except for placing your trust in Legolas?" Aragorn quickly looked back and smiled. Arod, even without a rider, galloped swiftly behind them for Shadowfax was his friend and leader.

As much as the rest of us for following Gandalf, Aragorn thought with amusement.

"It soon grows dark, my friends," said the Istar as he led them through the rolling lush plains of Rohan. Here, the grasses grew tall, almost fifteen hands high; it was almost as tall as their horses. Undeterred, the steeds and their riders plowed through, ignoring the lashings of the grass at their bodies. Shadowfax galloped swiftly, showing no signs of weariness or complaint and Aragorn wondered at the noble mount.

"It will soon be dusk," Gimli said when he had the chance to free himself from his preoccupation with the height of the horse. "Will Legolas soon be arriving at Rivendell, Gandalf?"

"Gwaihir is swift and tireless. Your friend will be there ere night casts her darkest cloak upon us all. Do not worry, Gimli. Legolas is already resolute – I could see it in his eyes ere he left."

Legolas resolute? Then that was a good sign. "Does Elrond know of this?"

"He knows, for I have bent my thoughts and he has received them this very noon. He will wait for the call of Gwaihir; do not trouble yourself, Aragorn son of Arathorn. There are many paths that a Man, an Elf, or a Dwarf may choose. Fate has already destined your road; she will lead Legolas to his own destiny."

"Hopefully one without anymore agonies or treacheries."

Gandalf remained silent for a moment. "Life without obstacles, Aragorn, is not a life worth living. He will confront them in due time. And hopefully, when he does, he will be able to smite them down with his former strength. For that is what I hope for him – his road is already dark enough."

* * *

Dusk fell rapidly upon Imladris. Elrond and Thranduil waited in silence upon the balcony, each glancing at the shades of colour filling the expanse above their heads. Far off to their right, a pale moon gleamed, not yet visible while sunset dominated the sky. With a sigh, Thranduil leaned forward, throwing his weight against the railing. "It is a long wait, Elrond. And yet, with this news of the Windlord, my heart is calm."

"The lord of Eagles travels swiftly, my friend. Do not concern yourself, for my own heart is quiet. It has been a while since I have felt that. During this time, this Third Age, we have much to worry about – you, your son; me, the destruction of the Ring and the defense of Imladris against Sauron. We all have our moments of despair and wretchedness. But we now wait for a harbinger – one bearing hope, I should think."

"I do will that to be true, Elrond." It had been a while since Thranduil left Mirkwood; he did not know when he should return. "If the Windlord brings me hope, I shall depart for my kingdom ere the night is over. I have my own premonitions, for I have a sent one of your messengers to bear news for my sons. I called them forth to Imladris, for my heart tells me of joyous tidings."

"Have they received your command, my fellow lord?"

Thranduil nodded. "I have received a message scripted by my sons but a day and half ago. They will be here on the morrow. When, I do not know but they travel light and armed. Such are these times. Should I leave this very night, greet them with the courtesy extended to friends and nobility."

The Half-elf gazed across at the dimming sky. "Do not fear lack of respect, Thranduil. They will be well received and spoken fairly to. As I have treated you, a guest and companion in my humble home, I do not expect hospitality to diminish when your sons arrive."

"Many thanks, Elrond."

"I return the same thanks to you, Thranduil. It gets lonely here, even with sons and a daughter. Our time is soon over, and we shall be forgotten. What Men will remember of us would be nothing more than myths and legends."

"I wait for the same fate, as all Elves do."

Their contemplative silence suddenly broke as a shrill and majestic cry rent the sky. Glancing skywards, Thranduil beheld the lord of Eagles, Gwaihir the Windlord. The eagle circled round Imladris, his wings stretched wide as he descended towards the ground. Straining his eyes, the Elf-king saw what it was the eagle carried in his claws. Or rather, whom Gwaihir carried.

"My son!"

Elrond turned to him, a smile on his face. "I think your questions have been answered, my fellow lord. Shall we go and receive your son?"

"Let us do, Elrond! Now my heart can rest assured, for he has returned to me!"

Gwaihir flapped his wings, lowering himself towards the ground. Gently, he slipped his talons free of the Elf's garb, settling the sleeping prince on his side. Regal in his splendor, the eagle turned to welcome the figures of two Elves, both noble in their own right. "My lords, is he what Gandalf has told you to wait for?"

Thranduil fell to his knees, cradling his son in his arms. Ever since that night when Legolas first cried out for him, the Elven king could not bear to sleep without knowing his son's plight. He had come to Imladris, to Elrond to seek advice and counsel. Elrond had given them, and had shared his own grief. And now, his child had returned to him, sleeping like an infant. He caught the eagle within his sight, and the fierce yellow eyes gazed back at him. "I cannot thank you enough, lord of the Eagles. For he is my son, and he is now safe."

The eagle blinked. "It was by the command of the Lady Galadriel and Mithrandir to bring him to you. You have a worthy son, king of Mirkwood. He speaks fairly to all, and although he is scarred from without, he still has beauty within. If I had a child, I would be honoured to have one such as he."

"Gwaihir," said Elrond, stepping forward, "you are returning to your people now?"

The eagle rustled his feathers. "I shall, for subjects without a king are lost and often wander astray. I cannot stay here long, for there is much for me to do."

"As it is for all of us. Go then, my friend and tell your people a kind greeting from the house of Elrond."

"And from the kingdom of Thranduil," said the Elf-king as he looked at Gwaihir, grateful. "For by your vigilance, you have brought back one that I feared dead."

"I will bring your fair words back, my lords. The night draws close, and I bid you all pleasant dreams." So saying, Gwaihir raised himself aloft in the air, gained speed, and soon flew over Rivendell and disappeared into darkness. A gentle breeze blew past, casting dignified robes and tresses into the air.

"My fellow lord, it is best now to bring him in. Shall we wake him?"

Thranduil shook his head. "No. Let him sleep, for he is weary." Cradling Legolas in his arms, the Elf stood and strode next to Elrond. "He seems at peace now. He sleeps like a child."

"He is a child, Thranduil. At least your own."

"That he is, and for that I am grateful." So speaking, both Thranduil and Elrond entered once again into the sanctuary that was Imladris. As the night strengthened her forces and the moon waxed pale, the lord of Imladris sought to heal what he could of Legolas' wounds, working diligently as the hours passed. As for Thranduil, king of the Silvan Elves of Northern Mirkwood, he held his son's hand. Their parting had been long, and they were soon to part again, but not before Thranduil could pass his tranquility and relief onto his son, whom he loved better than all of his riches and wine. Almost too late had he discovered that truth, and he realized for how long he had left his child alone and adrift.

Upon leaving, he glanced at one of the rooms where the faint light of candles could be seen. Legolas lay there, now in Elrond's care. He could not leave without saying a word of encouragement or hope. Legolas would hear him, for he still dreamt. "Farewell, my son. May you grow strong again, and never look back. There are many destinies for us all to take – take yours without shame."

He halted, feeling someone's presence behind him. The feeling was warm and comforting, without harshness or spite. It was his father. Turning around, he faced the elder and lowered his eyes in respect. A hand gently caught him below the chin and raised him so that he could see Thranduil face to face. There was something akin to fatherly love in the Elf's eyes, and Legolas felt safe.

"I have come to tell you farewell, for you cannot hear me from without. I will not leave you in your dreams but I must leave you in the flesh. The lord Elrond will take care of you. Heal swiftly, my son and do not look back."

"I will try not to, Father," said Legolas humbly. "I do not wish to disappoint you."

"Nay! Do not seek my approval, Legolas. Do not disappoint yourself. Continue finding your path; I will be behind you, always."

Legolas smiled. "Thank you, Father. May your journey back home be swift and safe."

Thranduil smiled back, running his hand along Legolas' face. "And yours as well, my son. Come, we must both split paths. I will walk mine; you have yours to turn to." Removing his hand from his child's face, the Elf-king stepped back. "It is time, Legolas."

Turning around, the Elven prince strode ahead. Ahead into darkness, ahead into light, and ahead into many struggles and joys yet unseen and unveiled. These roads he must cross, and these obstacles he must overcome.

He was ready now.


	13. Questions Unspoken to Oneself

**Shadows Amongst the Leaves**

Chapter XIII 

Imladris. He was in Imladris yet again but this time for another purpose. Legolas tilted his head, listening to the birds singing their fair songs. He wished to join them, for he longed to hear his own voice glad upon the wind again. But alas! his healing was far from over; how long it would take Legolas did not know but he banished the hopelessness out of his mind. It would not do to fall again into despair and wretchedness – not when his companions struggled so hard to pull him away from its brink. Smiling at the thought of Aragorn, Gimli, and Gandalf, the Elf turned away from the balcony and went back into his room.

When he had awakened upon the first light of dawn, the lord Elrond was there, standing by his bedside. Legolas remembered looking at the Elf-lord with dazed realization before he nearly sprang out from under his covers in acknowledgment of Elrond's presence. The ruler of Imladris laughed then, his amusement apparent and Legolas fell back against the bed in embarrassment. He had never seen the lord Elrond so merry before; was it due to his youthful reaction to authority?

"Do not be surprised, Legolas. You are now a guest within my halls, as free to wander around as the rest of the Elves. You are now fully healed of your physical hurts; that has been dealt with. You will find your weapons resting on the chair over there," explained the Half-elf, jerking his head in that direction with a slight nod, "and the new clothes are on your bed. I tried to get the colours of your father's kingdom for you, for you are doubtlessly used to the hues of Mirkwood and I will not obligate you to don colours not of your liking."

"I am fully healed?" he asked, surprised. "But I could not have been here for long!"

"Indeed, Prince Legolas. Gwaihir the Windlord brought you to us the night before, while Imladris took its respite. Your wounds were terrible but they were not beyond my abilities to heal, albeit they took long hours into the night. You will bear scars, for the marks were deep. If you should choose to walk, you will find yourself able to; those wounds required more than skill – they required reverence to those who created us. Only they could heal dire injuries as such, and they did while I laid blessings upon you with closed eyes."

"I owe you my thanks then, lord Elrond. The last time you laid eyes on me, I was healthy and well. When you saw me the night before, I was bruised and weary; now, I am recovered because of your efforts."

Elrond smiled, and in that ageless face, Legolas glimpsed wisdom and fatherly encouragement. "I did what I had to, son of Thranduil. I am a father as well, so your pain is common to me. Your father was here for several days; he went back to Mirkwood ere the dawn came. Your brothers should be coming soon, according to their own words. Rest if you want, Legolas! And if you should wish to explore Imladris yet again, you may! I have spoken too much, and my tasks now bid me come. A maiden will come to tidy your appearance ere your kindred meet you face to face. That is all."

The Elven prince gazed fondly around his room. The carved chair where he found his bow, quiver, and knife. The quiver had been replenished with arrows, he noticed. A large oak wardrobe was on his left, placed against the wall and facing the bed. It was empty and Legolas placed his nightwear inside, as carefully as when he had lived in his own home. Sunlight shone into the open enclosure, softening the delicate structures surrounding him. Upon lord Elrond's departure, he had thrown off the covers and slid out of the bed. He was astonished that he could walk, for he had been incapacitated for so long. Overjoyed at this change, he had immediately stridden from corner to corner. He still walked with a light step, although he did note a slight heaviness to his pace – that would take time to correct, he told himself. Then, without wasting time, he changed clothes and contemplated his situation outside on the balcony.

He had come to the decision to battle whatever darkness tried to seize him. After depending on his father and his companions for the past few days, he now found himself independent and free to do whatever he wished. Gandalf's words remained in his mind, like a sign emblazoned upon a banner. _Overcome your fears, my good prince. We shall need you when time beckons._ The first fear he had to conquer was that of the Orcs – should he slay them or not?

It still bothered Legolas whenever he brought forth the subject. They used to be dark elves, Avari as Mithrandir called them. Elves that had never seen the light of the Two Trees of the Noldor; he was one of their kindred. In Elven history, he remembered that his people were broken into two branches – one called the Calaquendi, known as Elves who had seen the light; the second called the Moriquendi, known as Elves who had never seen the light and therefore lived in darkness. He belonged to that branch, for he had been born long after the events of the First Age. Therefore, the Avari were indirectly linked to his lineage through similar circumstances.

"Such a burden I had never thought would fall upon me," said Legolas, settling his bow and quiver to the floor so that he could sit in the chair. Pulling out his silver-hafted long knife, the Elf turned the weapon around in his hands. Sunlight reflected off the smooth surface and the metal gleamed. He had used this knife to defend himself on the slopes of Emyn Muil, near Parth Galen where Boromir had fallen. Not only had he failed to save the man's life but he had endangered Gimli as well. He had dropped his knife in the leaves after an arrow through the chest rendered him helpless and weak. What if he had not come to Boromir's rescue?

Guilt filled the Elf, and he clutched the weapon tightly in his hand. He had failed to save a member of the Fellowship, although his efforts were worthy of merit. But what good was it when he had placed a friend in peril and in turn became a captive of his enemies? This was yet another struggle that he had unearthed.

"My lord, Elrond bids me come to tidy your appearance. Am I disturbing you?"

Raising his eyes, Legolas saw a pale maiden standing at the door, her foot not yet across the threshold. She held a wrapped bundle in her hands. As he studied her, the Elf noticed her smiling, as if amused by his silence. Lowering his sight so that he only beheld his knife, Legolas spoke. "No. You may do your task." By the sound of rustling cloth, he knew that the Elf had entered.

"My lord, will you lay down your weapon?"

"Is there any trouble with my contemplation? Can I not hold it while you attend to your duties?"

"No, my lord," the maiden said, setting her bundle down to the table next to him. "But I do not wish for you to injure yourself with that. Elrond has healed you, as I have heard and I will not have blood spilled because of the flawed handling of a knife."

At this, Legolas turned around and gazed steadily at her. "My lady, I am a warrior. I handle all of my weapons with skill and care. The knife is sheathed and will therefore do me no harm. Instead of trying to involve me with your talk, do what your lord bids you to do. I need solitude and I cannot think with idle chatter."

"Very well, my lord." It was as if he had struck her, for she flinched. Legolas regretted his cold manner of speaking but there was nothing else he could have possibly said. The maiden, in her carelessness, had treated him like a novice warrior; he wondered if she despised him. Did she know about his dilemma? Troubled, Legolas slid his knife into his belt, letting his hands fall into his lap.

"I will trim your hair first, for it is uneven and does not befit an Elf."

"Do what you must, my lady and be quick about it."

Releasing himself into the Elf maiden's skill with a blade, Legolas sat back. The last time he looked upon himself was during his cleansing down at the Entwash, and he remembered how agonized he was by his reflection. In his eyes, there was no light. All that he saw was darkness, tinged with melancholy and grief. His shorn hair framed his face; however, it failed to brighten it. Much had been lost and much had been changed. Did the Orcs scar him, marring his visage? This was the last thought to strike him, and Legolas raised his hand towards his forehead.

"What are you doing, my lord?"

"Nothing," said Legolas softly. Slowly, he ran his hand over his forehead and then felt along his cheekbones. Surprised, he felt the outline of his face and brushed his fingers past his other cheek. Nothing. They had only bruised him; they had failed to scar him where it should have mattered. A small tremor of joy passed swiftly through him.

"If you are worried about your fairness, my lord, it is of no great concern," the maiden said boldly, "for the bruises will fade. There were no scars, else I would have shuddered to touch you."

"It is not wise to judge by looks alone, my lady. 'Tis unfair of you to consider that."

"I do not love ugliness, my lord. What I say is honest and true."

"I believe that," said Legolas, "for all Elves detest what is ugly and foul. And yet, what you say strikes me to the heart. Can you look past any being's outward appearance, my lady and see what is truly there? For the beauty within rather the fairness without is what I hold most true. Although if I were scarred and hideous to behold, I would consider myself scorned by all who saw me. It is a blessing that I did not receive wounds that eyes could see."

The Elf behind him lowered her blade. "Finished, my lord. It was swift work at best, and one that I am glad to complete. This talk of wounds, scarring, fairness, and foulness is unusual talk amongst Elves. You are lord Thranduil's son, are you not? When you last came, you were bright and cheerful; what ill tidings have befallen you? If it were not for your way of speaking and your silence, I would have mistaken you for another."

Legolas sighed, weary of talking about his woes to Elrond's maidservant. What he would give to have Gimli and Aragorn by his side, friends and companions with whom he had spent many months of peril and camaraderie! Only they knew him best, being as close as brothers and as loyal as ones' own blood. He sorely missed them, and wondered if they thought the same. Running a hand through his hair, he bowed his head. "Is that all, my lady?" This time, his voice did not sound cold and annoyed; instead, he heard a slight strain of sadness that doubtlessly came from within his own heart. "My lady, is that all?"

"Yes it is, my lord. Do you wish for me to leave?"

A light and elegant voice; Legolas thought he heard some veiled irritation. "You may leave." His father, Thranduil often said this to his subjects after he was through with them. For all of them, those were words of relief. Just then, he had sounded like his father – not in voice, but in tone. Glancing around the room, Legolas realized that the maiden was gone. Swiftly and with light steps, for the Elves were such creatures. Her talk had reopened an old wound, and Legolas sat there, watching the shadows of leaves flitting across the floor.

He had seen prejudices before in Elven society; this was one that he had never paid attention to during his upbringing. The concept of fairness against ugliness was in every Elf's mind, be they male or female. As an aesthetic race, they only sought beauty wrought by skilled hands, preferably that of their own making. Even if the Dwarves contested that, there was an air of pretentiousness amongst his kinsman. No one could conquer them in a competition of craftsmanship – that was the common saying. He had lived with his father and brothers in the forests, isolated from all other Elves. He had not even been to Lothlórien prior to joining the Fellowship; his own grandfather despised the Lady Galadriel for a reason that he was never told of. Against his ancestor's wishes, he had crossed into the Golden Wood, rested there and partaken of the lord and lady's gifts.

Legolas shook his head, feeling his trimmed hair brushing against his face. He was wandering off in his own thoughts – not a good sign. Could he go back to Mirkwood? If he chose to, would his own people reject him? Even if his face had not been marred, he was no longer smooth-bodied like the way he was ere he left the forest. The Orcs had made certain of that with their whips and swords, beating him until blood flowed. The lord Elrond reminded him that there would be scars. His eldest brother he dreaded to face; what mockery and derision would Mornereg unleash that would create new wounds within him? If his second brother came, then perhaps he might seek some comfort and reassurance; Nimthôn was always the kinder one, for he held him after the death of his mother. Mornereg had accused him outright in front of his father and the court for negligence to protect the queen; his second brother defended him and strife ran between the three of them.

His father, widowed and grieving, did nothing to quell their feud.

Already, the Elven prince felt his old shadows returning upon him. Agonized at reawakening his old memories and what he must do to defeat his current obstacles, Legolas sprang out of the chair and turned to his weapons. As he held each one, feeling the wood and metal of each object, he narrowed his eyes. His bow, quiver, and knife – idle tools of war they were not. Mithrandir told him to prepare for battle, possibly against the very foes he now dreaded to kill. What should he do with these weapons, then? They were his pride and joy, for even if he did not relish fighting, their craftsmanship was genuine and Legolas thanked the Lady Galadriel for them. His own knife he commissioned an Elven smith to create out of unalloyed silver and steel; so dexterous were Elves that forged silver welded with steelwould not shatter or bend during use. During his times of training in archery, he learned how to fletch and whittle his own arrows.

What fate should he give to those faithful weapons?

After gazing at them for a long moment, in which the wind outside ceased and silence fell tensely upon the room, Legolas sheathed his knife and slid it tightly into his belt. Undoing the polished leather straps attached to his quiver, he moved it to his back and readjusted the baldric snugly around his torso. Lastly, he held the bow in his hand, feeling the leather grip bending where his fingers curled around the rounded surface. He could not abandon his weapons – they were as much a part of him as the trees were. His ambidextrous qualities in battle were not meant for waste.

But he was not yet ready for war.

So thinking, Legolas left his room; he strode with a light step and a slightly heavier pace.

* * *

"_Mae govannen,_ Legolas!"

"Lindir, my friend!" exclaimed the Elf prince in delight. "How goes the days at lord Elrond's house? He sent a maiden to my room but a while ago, and she nearly snapped my patience! I do not wonder that the tranquility of this place makes you sing and dance gaily while the rest of the world finds itself in a quarrel! Tell me, friend, how bodes your time here?"

Legolas could not have been more surprised. Upon leaving his quarters, he headed for the great hall, for he wished to ask about archery grounds. The last time he frequented Imladris, he did not have the time or the luxury of practicing his hand against the other Elves. The most he did afterwards was to sing fair songs with Lindir and his fellow kindred, basking in the hearth fires and reveling in Elven tradition. Now, he did not have the heart to sing and his troubled mind forced him towards repetitive practice to forget his woes. As he nearly passed the hearth, a voice cried out his name, greeting him in the light tongue of Quenya.

The greeting he knew, for both Silvan and High Elves used it as a polite form of address. Taken aback by the speaker's enthusiasm, he strode forward until he found Lindir sitting by another fire. The Elf had not changed since the Fellowship left for their quest.

Still, he sang and partook of merriment.

"Legolas, you are hasty in your questions. As for my time here, I live the same from day to day. What else is there to do, my friend? As for that maiden, I know her. She is still learning the quaint way of ladyship and that is a harder task than what we are accustomed to. Although your task is harder still, being noble and a king's son. I heard tales of your adventures with the Fellowship. How goes the journey?"

If only Lindir had not asked! Legolas sat down next to the Elf, keeping his back to the hearth, for he did not wish to look upon the flames. Before he left Imladris, there were no nightmares plaguing him; now, he dared not tempt his mind. A ravaged Lothlórien he had not the heart to look upon, whether it be phantom or shadow. He noticed Lindir studying him, as if knowing his mind and Legolas turned his sight away from his inquisitive kinsman. "One of us has fallen – the man of Gondor. The Orcs slew him and our Fellowship is now but remnants, divided and on different destinies."

"That is a cruel fate," said Lindir softly, his voice falling low. "And yet, some of your companions have fared well, is it not?"

"Mithrandir, Aragorn the Dunedan, and Gimli the Dwarf are now together. The Halflings have gone their own way. I am in Imladris, back to where I started. Tell me, Lindir – how does unity divide itself so viciously? I will to be back with the others; the Dwarf is the one that I feel a lack of at this moment."

Lindir laughed. "The Dwarf? Legolas, surely you have not been tricked by his cunning!"

"I jest not, my friend. I no longer hold such petty prejudices against his kind, for we are offensive to his people with our ways as well. There is something that might interest you, Lindir. You know how we pride ourselves for our craftsmanship and arts, boasting that there is no equal? My friend, do not stare at me so," said Legolas, for Lindir looked at him curiously. "I found that Dwarves and Elves are similar, bound by a weakness for things wondrous and fair. Gimli is such a Dwarf; already, the Lady Galadriel has bestowed to him a great gift and choice words."

"You have changed, Legolas. Ere these days, you scorned a Dwarf. But you return with strange knowledge, speaking of things queer to Elves. I know not what to say. Look not around you, my friend, for others stare."

"They know then of my misfortune."

"Most of us do but not all. Come, Legolas – you appear tired and sad. I do not know what has befallen you; such is the way of aloofness and merriment of wine and song. Where were you headed? I shall accompany you and if you are willing, speak and tell me of your burdens. I can already see in your eyes a gloom like that of dusk falling. Come, my friend."

Ignoring the piercing stares directed at him, Legolas stood. He could feel in their expressions contempt and coldness. Shaken by his first experience with Elven society against fallen ones, Legolas roused himself from his reveries and followed Lindir out of the great hall. The Elf led him down one of the three corridors branching out from the hall, choosing the middle path and walking with a swift pace. It was as if Lindir could also feel the begrudging acknowledgment from the other Elves, Legolas thought moodily. In his distress, he strode with unsure footing; his steps heavier than usual.

Lindir turned in the corridor, his face illuminated by sunlight. "Come, Legolas!"

Weary and pained by rejection, Legolas slowed and eventually halted. He could not have prepared himself for the cruel glances his own kinsman gave him, no matter how much time he allotted. Resting his bow against the delicate wall of the open corridor, he leaned back against a pillar, eyes closed. Here then was another wound; a fresh one torn open by the spite of his own people. He crossed his arms, embracing himself. Even with the warmth of the sun, he felt cold inside.

Was this what it felt like being a stranger to loved ones?

"What is it, Legolas?" Lindir stood in front of him; he could tell from the direction of the Elf's voice.

Bowing his head, Legolas refused to answer. If this was the way it was in Imladris, then what of Mirkwood? How could he go back to the Silvan Elves if rejection was his only reward for surviving brutal torment by their foes? Did they prefer him slain rather than returning in shame? Was that it? Bitterness welled within him, and the Elven prince fought against a dammed flow of ready tears. He could not weep, not yet. It was not yet his time to grieve for this loss. Keeping his eyes shut, Legolas continued thinking. If that was the situation at hand, he did not know where to go. Lothlórien? The Lady Galadriel and the Lord Celeborn might understand but what of the other Elves? They too were Silvan, and he dared not face their judgment. Only scorn would greet him. Where should he turn to and to whom?

"Legolas, you are frightening me," said Lindir. "Legolas, my friend, what is it that is agonizing you so?"

If Lindir only knew! Lindir would never experience this kind of rejection, for he lived in lord Elrond's house, safe and sheltered. The lord Elrond would protect him, armed with majesty and power. But for Legolas, he felt the raw wound tearing his soul apart and he bled within, too grief-stricken to explain. Once again, he had fallen into shadows, tripped by callous expressions and no kind words of greeting save that of Lindir. Was Lindir his only friend? Would Nimthôn his second brother greet him with gentle words? Shivering from inner chills, Legolas held himself harder.

When all hope seemed to dim, he felt Lindir's hands grasping his shoulders. "Legolas, my friend, do not grieve. If it is because of the cruelty of our kinsman back in yonder great hall, ignore them. I will talk to lord Elrond about this, for this is most inhospitable. But for now, can you not speak to me? Your face is pale and you seem mute. It frightens me, for I have never seen one so afflicted. Legolas, speak to me."

Lindir. His friend. Lindir had not given him cruel looks or a harsh tongue. Legolas raised his head and opened his eyes, gazing into the Elf's worried face with guilt. And now, he frightened the elder by his silence. By his own will, he shed some of the shadows and took control of his speech. Pain still numbed his mind but he spoke. "Lindir, is that you?" His voice threatened to slip and falter along with the admission of tears. Legolas blinked and looked away.

"It is, my friend. You had me concerned there, Legolas. Do not do that again, my friend. I beg this of you."

"I cannot give you my promise, Lindir. There are too many shadows around me."

Lindir gazed at him sadly. "I cannot sway you from your black thoughts, Legolas. But will you accompany me? Where is it that you want to go? I will take you there. Perhaps some activity would deter your mind from sadness and weariness, which is plain to see on your face. Your former joy has fled and it grieves me terribly."

"The archery grounds, Lindir." His own words were hard to come by, and Legolas reached for them desperately. "Does the lord Elrond have an archery ground, Lindir? For it is there where I could spend my grief on arrows and targets."

The Elf nodded and took a hold of his arm. "Come, Legolas. Let us go there."

* * *

Thranduil saw the scene before him with anguish. Legolas, struck down by a fell shadow, collapsed to the ground. The path before him darkened and his son lay there, silent. If it were not for his releasing of Legolas to his own will, the Elf-king would have swept his child into his arms and held him. But it was no longer his battle alongside Legolas – it was Legolas' own struggle. 

Before he could look away, he heard a terrible sound. It was the sound of one crying as if in deep distress, as if that being was torn and could not move on. Those were the cries of forsaken hope and fear newly awakened.

It was his son's voice, lamenting for a new loss.

Grieved but unable to help, Thranduil could only stand there and watch.

* * *

"Your arrows never miss, my friend. Has the grief lessened since those six arrows were shot?" 

Legolas lowered his bow, swinging it to his side. As he turned to face Lindir, he could feel new agony rushing into his heart. Lowering his eyes, he stared at the ground. "It has not faded, as I had hoped. Instead, it has increased. I feel so alone; is this what I have returned for?"

"Why not shoot another arrow?"

That was Lindir, all right. The Elf only knew happiness and shelter; he did not know agony and nakedness. Raising his bow, Legolas swiftly nocked it and fired. The shaft soared through the air, hitting its target so forcefully that the other arrows split and fell to the grass. But it brought Legolas no joy and he turned away from his amusement. Replacing his bow onto his back, he strode forward, knelt down, and retrieved the broken shafts. More than one had the fletching completely torn off.

"That was a good shot, my friend. You still seem burdened. Why not tell me what has befallen you, for you have kept your silence for long enough."

Legolas looked at the broken arrows. "You seem eager to find out why I suffer."

"If I seem eager, Legolas, it is because you are not speaking!" Lindir leapt off the rock he was sitting on. "Tell me, Legolas – have you gotten so afraid that you no longer trust anyone?"

"I do not even know myself now, I am afraid. I am seeking my path but it is a long and arduous find. I know where I must go and where I must walk; however, getting there is simple and staying on is difficult."

"I will ask you a question then: why did lord Elrond heal you?"

Startled, Legolas faced Lindir. "Must that be your first question, my friend? Can you not ask another?"

Lindir shook his head and stood, for he had knelt next to Legolas. "That is the one you must answer, Legolas. I will not stir from this place till you speak."

"It is a question that will take a while to answer, for my heart bleeds with every word. Sit yourself down upon the stone again, Lindir. I will be with you in a short time."

"What are you doing, my friend?" asked Lindir curiously.

"Collecting the broken arrows. Even if my own soul is shattered does not mean I will leave lord Elrond's home in disarray. At least he has you and the rest of your kindred to watch over him," Legolas said softly, feeling a new wave of grief overtaking him. "I will answer your questions, my friend. Look at the sky, Lindir – for already the sun is sinking towards the horizon."

"That is why lord Elrond healed you?" Lindir stared at him in unveiled shock. "How did you manage to survive, Legolas? Any other Elf would have already perished!"

Legolas smiled wanly, knowing Lindir's outcry was perfectly understandable. "I would have died, Lindir. Do you remember how Elves dream even when awake? Someone reached out for me and saved me from peril. I was not strong enough myself; I had to rely on others."

"Will you explain who saved you, my friend?"

Legolas shook his head. If there was one thing that he had promised to himself, it was that he would keep his father's times of protection sacred and secret. He was not going to tell anyone, even an Elf like Lindir. Only Thranduil and he would know the reason for his survival; it was a cherished moment between father and son. Lowering his sight away from Lindir's perplexed face, Legolas hid a slight smile. "No, my friend. It is not something for others to know. I am sorry for your sake, although I do not feel guilty for this lack of admission."

"It is all right, Legolas. You do not need to reveal all to me."

"That is how I wish for it to be, Lindir."

"Will your father Thranduil look for prospects of marriage for you, then? I know you spoke of your brothers ere you left with Gandalf and the Halfling. Perhaps a wife would soothe your wounds."

"I will not marry now," said Legolas coldly, still staring down at the leaves. "I did not tell you one thing, Lindir. No king or lord would ever want his daughter to wed one tainted by darkness. I remained unwed for as long as I could, and my father did not begrudge me for that. Now, with my scars, I will avoid betrothal for the rest of my life."

"Legolas, what do you mean?"

"Lindir, are you blind or deaf? Which wise lord would want his daughter wed to one unmanned?"

"Legolas, you do not mean what I believe you said?" Lindir reached out for him, and then withdrew his hand. Legolas glimpsed the Elf's hand; he trembled. "You _should_ be in the Halls of Mandos after suffering such an indignity!"

"Yes, my friend. That is what I meant. I cannot forget that mark of disgrace and shame; forever will I remember the memories. It is vile to think of, and yet this particular darkness is unforgettable. So it is that I speak, with regret and humiliation. It is good that you do not know this torment, for you are safe where you are." So saying, Legolas fell silent yet again.

For a moment, the two Elves sat in silence, each concentrating on his own thoughts. The Elven prince raised his eyes after a while and glanced at the sky. He had talked to Lindir for many hours, even as the sun finally sank below the horizon and dusk overtook the wide expanse above their heads. Pale violet and streaks of dark blue tinged the sky; he thought he could see the white underside of the moon revealing herself. It was going to be a tranquil night, shimmering with stars and moonlight. Legolas preferred to stay outdoors, away from the other Elves.

It looked like as if Lindir had the same thought, for the Elf did not stir.

"Are you not going in, Lindir?" he asked, concerned. "Or are you just going to forego your supper?"

"If I go in, Legolas, where would that leave you? Do not concern yourself about me. I would rather stay out here with you instead of going in and facing my kinsman. I will never look upon them highly again, for they have scorned someone courageous and true of spirit. You truly are Thranduil's son and that is no understatement, my friend."

Legolas smiled. "Thank you, Lindir."

Before Lindir could reply back in his own turn, an Elf ran out of the abode, fleet of foot. Legolas did not recognize him but Lindir did, for he cried out. "Gildor Inglorion! And I thought you had gone west! What are you doing back here, my friend?"

Gildor slowed as he approached the two Elves. Legolas could see that he was tall and mighty, slender and elegant, with fair hair and a noble face. The Elf turned to him, and Legolas realized that Gildor knew him; could it be because of the lord Elrond's counsel? "Prince Legolas, it seems like your brothers have been delayed on the road. They will not be present tonight. Perhaps they are under attack?"

Something constricted in Legolas' throat and he nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He noticed Lindir staring at Gildor with wide eyes, as if also in disbelief. Gildor glanced at Lindir, and then turned his attention back to him. "Lord Elrond sent forth messengers and scouts, for this delay is strange. He has only gotten a message back saying that they have been delayed but without a stated reason. I suppose it could be a nightly assault upon their small company. Prince Legolas, are you all right?"

His brothers were possibly under attack by foul forces. Could anything be worse? Legolas fought to free his voice; it seemed as if silence had become his scourge since his fateful circumstances. "No," he managed to choke out without sounding like a fool. "It is nothing. Is that all, Gildor?"

"It is, Prince Legolas. Lindir, why are you still outside? It is already dark!"

"Legolas prefers the sky and the wind, my friend. Why do you linger out here? Tell lord Elrond that I will accompany Legolas outside, for it is the prince's will."

Gildor stepped back. "I will tell him, Lindir. Just be sure to keep yourself and Prince Legolas safe, is that understood?"

"Understood, my friend. Now go on inside and leave us in peace!"

His brothers were delayed. They had not come. But the lord Elrond had told him about their message; what was delaying them? The road to Rivendell from Mirkwood was only two days worth of travel – one day and a half if rushed – and when he last came, there had been no enemy forces waiting in ambush. Had everything turned dark for him, even extending to his family?

"Legolas? Are you all right?"

Legolas turned away from Lindir, no longer gazing at the sky. "Leave me be, Lindir but for a while. I shall need the silence. It is the only thing that comforts me."

His son had stopped weeping but he still lay on the darkened path. Thranduil did not know what to do. Was there a new agony for Legolas to conquer? If so, then this was going to be a long night.

"Legolas, do not shed your hopes," he said, knowing that Legolas could not hear him.

"Mornereg! Nimthôn!"

Upon hearing his other sons' names, Thranduil stiffened. What new terror was this? What had befallen his other two children? He stepped forward but found himself unable to approach Legolas. The Elven prince lay dismally on the ground, as if lost in his thoughts.

He no longer spoke.

"Legolas! What has happened?" the Elf-king cried out, distraught by his son's behavior and the mentioning of his other offspring's names. What shadow threatened them?

The younger Elf turned his face towards his father, and Thranduil felt pity and grief overwhelming him from within. Instead of distress, he saw terror. Instead of agony, he saw bitterness. And instead of anger mingled with melancholy, he saw exhaustion.

A tear ran down Legolas' face; that said enough without words.

**Author's Notes:** I used some Elvish names of my own making here, thanks to the website _Ardalambion._ I basically printed out a list of vocabulary and tried to mingle them together to get 'Wood-elf' names for Legolas' brothers (my own made-up characters, since Tolkien never expanded on his family). I'm no Sindarin expert.

_Mornereg_ – " black (morn), holly-tree (ereg)"

_Nimthôn_ – "white (nim), pine (thôn)"


	14. Turmoil within the Hearth and Home

**Shadows Amongst the Leaves**

Chapter XIV 

Lindir stayed with Legolas all that night, even when the Elven prince grew weary and decided to head inside, seemingly oblivious to the other Elves. For Legolas, the news of his brothers' delay smote him to the center of his heart. Did fate play tricks with innocents just to watch them suffer? Heading back into the great hall, he gazed steadily at all of his kinsmen, as if challenging them to deride him. Some of them stared back and some looked away, ill at ease. Others ignored him and a few newcomers smiled, welcoming him into their circle. Tired and distressed, Legolas joined them. Lindir sat down next to him, gripping his shoulder as if to reassure him.

"You seem new here," said one of the Elves, crossing his arms and leaning back against his chair. "Lindir, who is this youngster?" The Elf had dark hair and grey eyes – a Sindar Elf, similar to Legolas. And yet, Legolas wondered at the other Elf's appearance, for the prince himself did not bear the darker traits of his kind. He was like his mother, who had fair hair and pale skin. The only trait he knew that was common amongst Elves was their eyes, bright and wide with wonder and light.

He did not know if he still held that trait, for much had befallen him.

"He is lord Thranduil's son and also a member of the Fellowship. You may have heard of his lordship, my fellow Elf. He is the one named Legolas, youngest of his family."

The Elf gazed hard at him, and then drew his face back. "Lord Thranduil's son, you say? He bears his mother's looks, yes. As for his father, I do not doubt that he has some of the lord's pride and stubbornness, although I cannot see it now. He is very anguished, Lindir. There is no light in his eyes and his face bears a sad countenance."

"His brothers were supposed to come ere this night, my friend. But they have not arrived and this is the reason for his silence and hurt. Legolas, why do you not speak to them? They have received you with open arms, unlike some in this hall."

At this, the great hall grew silent, nearly becoming like that of a tomb. Legolas glanced around, noticing that some of his kindred glared coldly at Lindir, as if taking his words as an affront. Lindir sat there quietly, bearing their harsh looks; Legolas looked back, feeling a small flame of fury burning within his breast. The Elf had protected him, shielding him from every cruel word and every condemning expression; could he not do the same? Slowly, as if his body refused to obey his mind, he stood and faced his people. These Elves were his elders, older in years and in experience. And yet, they were prejudiced and unforgiving, unwilling to readmit a scathed member of their race. Were these really his kindred or did they only say that with a twisted tongue?

"I may not be one of you," he said, reading their expressions as he spoke, "but I am still one of your people, Sindar or Noldo. It is unfair of you to judge me because I have returned bearing wounds of the Enemy; yet, you persist in your ill beliefs, believing me to be spoiled and unfair. While I will not call that a falsehood, I do take offense at your silence, for it is uncalled for. And now you condemn one of your own, an Elf from Imladris, from lord Elrond's house. You have known Lindir for a longer time than I. And you still believe yourself guiltless?"

"If we choose to judge him, it is our concern. Although you are the son of a king, young Legolas, you do not hold wisdom above us. You are still a child compared to us, and youths must listen and obey the adults. That is the way it is, young Elf and it would do you good to keep your tongue still."

Legolas fixed his sight upon the speaking Elf. A Noldo, one higher in power and authority; doubtlessly an Elf-lord similar to Glorfindel. But Glorfindel was gentler with his speech and understood better the ways of the heart. This elder did not, and his strictness marred his fair visage. "I do not believe in that, with your pardon. Why should years account for wisdom? Cannot a youth learn his own ways of knowledge, following his own paths? And why should I learn and obey words from elders who cannot bring themselves to speak to an escaped captive?"

"I will not bandy words with a defiant youth, least of all you, Thranduil's son!"

Opposition forced its hand against him, and Legolas stepped back, feeling himself giving way within. Some of his anger faded, only to be replaced by fear and that same coldness that chilled him earlier in the day. Behind him, he heard Lindir whispering beneath his breath. The Elf-lord strode towards him, taller and stronger. Legolas held his ground, standing firm as the Elf approached and finally halted in front of him. There was anger in those eyes, and as the Elf stared down at him, Legolas felt his resolution wavering.

"I will not hear such words from you again, do you understand? We have the right to hold our prejudices, and you do not have the right to meddle with it. Lindir deserved his chastisement, for he knows us well. Do you not, Lindir?"

Legolas could hear Lindir's voice faltering. "Yes, but I do not see why you persist in this ill manner."

"Legolas may be a prince, and Thranduil's son but he is younger than you even, Lindir. As such, he is outspoken and foolish, seeking solace from all."

"I seek nothing but understanding," said Legolas softly, hearing an edge of anger in his voice. "And that is something that I am astonished to find lacking, even from great Elf-lords who should know something about sorrow and torment. Or is it that because in your greatness, you have never experienced it? If so, you should not speak to me as such. If you happened to find yourself in my plight, I cannot bear to think of the cruelty you would endure."

"You speak self-righteously, young prince and it does not suit you well. Where has your hurt silence gone? Now you dare to speak to us like this; you have mettle in your weakness. And yet, it is your flaw."

"As it is yours, my fellow Elf."

The Elf-lord glared at him with cold eyes. Ere Lindir could move or Legolas could have foreseen it, a sharp pain ripped at the side of his mouth and the Elven prince staggered back. Stunned, Legolas brought the back of his hand towards his lip, which was torn. Blood had been shed; he had been backhanded. A sign of contempt and utter refusal to listen to his words. Lindir quickly stood and came next to him, holding him by the shoulders and glowering at the Elf who slapped him. Legolas heard the Elves behind him rising to their feet and the one that he spoke to stepped forward.

"That was foolish of you! You took it upon yourself to hit a prince!"

"An upstart needs discipline. That is what I gave him," replied the Elf-lord coolly, as if unperturbed by the sudden anger against him. "If a father does not teach his son to speak fairly, it must be taught to him."

"That is not your right!"

"Indeed, it is not your right," said a new voice, one as authoritative and calm as the lord Elrond's own. "You have struck an ill blow towards the son of a king, my friend. Do you find yourself in the right?" Glorfindel advanced forward, until he stood across from the other Elf-lord. "Legolas is my friend, even if he is scathed and changed. It is only those who cannot accept marred fairness that would speak as you do. Those were cruel and proud words – it will not be easily forgotten. If I were you, my friend, I would depart this hall, ere I come to judgment."

"Glorfindel!"

"You have heard me. Leave this hall and do not come back till we have left."

Legolas gazed at Glorfindel in amazement as he commanded the other Elf-lord to leave. The Noldo, enraged and humiliated, strode out of the hall with swift strides. As if disturbed by the events that had happened, the rest of the Elves left, save for those standing next to Legolas. Legolas lowered his eyes in respect as Glorfindel approached, for this was an Elf-lord that spoke truly and righteously. He was yet another friend in Imladris; there were not many of them. The Elf-lord laughed, and Legolas raised his eyes, curious as to Glorfindel's amusement.

"There is no need for reverence, Legolas Greenleaf."

"Glorfindel, you came at an opportune time. 'Tis unfortunate you saw his wrath."

"I heard your words, for I lingered long outside the hall. You have suffered here in Imladris? That is ill, for it bears witness against the hospitality of Elrond's house. Forgive my fellow kindred for their faults – they know not what they speak of."

Legolas gazed at Glorfindel, knowing what he said next bore heavily upon the Elf-lord's mind. "You need no forgiveness, for you have delivered me from difficulty. As for the others, they do not understand. They were wroth at Lindir for defending me, and I in turn could not leave him vulnerable against his own people."

"And yet you left yourself vulnerable. You bleed, my young prince."

"Sometimes sacrifices are needed to save others, Glorfindel. That is what I believe."

"Truly Thranduil's son. You carry his strength, will, and virtue before wine and riches stole his mind from him. I do not see the same for you, for you will bear them all until the end. A tower of defense even in weakness. Lindir, you defended him? That is commendable, then."

Lindir nodded. "I did and it brought much trouble. I stayed with Legolas, for his grief over his brothers was severe."

"You need not worry, Legolas. I have ridden the road but a few hours ago and I found them. They are safe and even now, they wait in your quarters. They did not meet your father on the road; how that is so, I do not know. There seems to be no cause for their delay, although they refused to give me a reason. Your eldest brother insisted that I bring you to meet them. Will you accompany me there? Lindir, my friend, will you as well?"

"Surely," replied Lindir, releasing Legolas. "We shall all visit your brothers, Legolas!"

Legolas smiled, relief overtaking his distress. For the moment, exhaustion fell from him and he wiped blood from his mouth. The Elf-lord had struck him hard in his anger; not even his own father used his hand against him. A backhand, a gesture of disrespect and lowering one to servitude. He was no servant or page; he was his father's son. Rubbing the dried crimson off his fingers, he glanced from Glorfindel to Lindir. "I will follow you, Glorfindel, albeit I know where my chambers lie. Lindir, my friend, come. It is cold in this hall, even with the flames. Let us leave all harsh words behind and see what my brothers have to say to us."

* * *

The bivouac rested in silence, aware of where they were headed. Aragorn glanced at the sky but without flames, there was nothing but darkness. Exhaustion overtook him and he strode wearily towards Gandalf and Gimli, who were still awake. The wizard puffed at his pipe; however, during this time of great alertness, he did not blow smoke rings. Gimli whetted his axe, grumbling under his breath in the language of his people. Amused by the Dwarf's attitude, Aragorn sat down next to him.

"My friend, what troubles you so?"

"It is an ill night, can you not see, Aragorn? While the others rest, I am preparing myself for war. There will be Orc-heads to hew and my blade must be sharp!"

Aragorn smiled. "Never was your blade dull, Gimli. Indeed, you have provided us with more than enough aid during battle. Your people are stout and stubborn, and to underestimate such a race is foolish!"

"Aye, indeed. Now that Gandalf has convinced King Théoden to lead the Riders of Rohan and the Men of the Mark to war against the forces of Isengard, I shall prove my mettle enough!" Gimli fell silent, as if pondering a thought. His hand slowed at sharpening the blade, Aragorn noticed. "If Legolas were here, we could contest each other. But he is not here, and it is lonely without his presence."

"So you feel that as well, friend? Perhaps it is like that for Gandalf, too."

"Perhaps, but I do not know. How Legolas is faring, we do not even know. Bitter is our stand!"

It was understandable, Aragorn admitted. Without Legolas by their side, there was no bantering between the Elf and the Dwarf to brighten their dim prospects. Although, how easily the prince would be able to lighten a dismal mood without prolonging or deepening his own was a question that the Ranger found no answer for. He could only wish Legolas safety and joy in Rivendell, for Elrond his foster father knew how to treat his guests. There were also other Elves there; perhaps Legolas could seek companionship from them.

"Yes, and if he were riding his mount, I would sit next to him!"

"You will become a rider yet, Gimli," stated Aragorn without amusement. "Poor Arod still follows us, for he will not leave Shadowfax. I wonder how it is for a horse to know his rider is absent, away because of turmoil."

"As Arod would not leave Shadowfax, I shall not abandon Legolas. May he join us soon, for we have much need of his aid!" So saying, Gimli turned back to his axe, whetting the edge with stone. Aragorn looked at him, troubled for the Dwarf and for the Elf. Their times were dark, yet being amongst friends lessened some of the shadows. Legolas was alone, away from them. He wondered if the Elf sorely missed them, as much as the rest of them did.

"I also hope for that, Gimli. May he be safe."

* * *

"Legolas! So you have come!" Nimthôn embraced him with enthusiasm, and then stepped back to look at him. Both of his elder brothers had raven hair and grey eyes, like that of true Sindarin origin. Legolas still wondered why he looked the way he did, almost Noldorin in appearance. But he did not have time to ponder, for his brother spoke eagerly and with glad words. "We have heard ill tidings of your return, but you seem well. It will take a while for your tresses to grow back, albeit it does not take away from who you are. Glorfindel, you were swift in your errand! Is the road safe?"

"As safe as it could be, Nimthôn son of Thranduil. I often ride on it, for it is in my blood to be vigilant."

Legolas glimpsed a smile on his brother's face as he saw Lindir. "Ah! So this is your friend, my younger brother? Has he been keeping you company ere we came?"

"Yes, Nimthôn. Lindir, come and speak to my brother."

Lindir stepped forward, swiftly and without hesitation. "So this is your second brother? Where is your eldest brother, Legolas?"

"I do not know, and my heart troubles me."

"I am here," said Mornereg as he strode out from the balcony. "I am his eldest brother, Elf of Imladris. Glorfindel, I ask for a private moment with my brothers. Legolas, tell your friend to leave us be." There was an air of command in his carriage and his stride, and Legolas found himself already distanced from his brother. Mornereg scorned Lindir, as he could see and this did not forebode well with the Elven prince.

Turning on him, Legolas spoke out. "Mornereg! You are in lord Elrond's house!"

"And I am your eldest brother, Legolas. Lord Elrond's house or not, I will not have others listening in on our private discussions! Glorfindel, will you leave us be? Be sure to take Lindir out with you."

"Mornereg!"

Glorfindel nodded, advancing and grasping Lindir's arm. The Elf protested, struggling a little. "Come, Lindir. We cannot disturb Thranduil's sons. Let us leave them to their talk. Although, Mornereg, choose a fairer tongue unless you wish a quarrel. Nimthôn, we are gracious for your greeting. Farewell for a while, Legolas."

"Farewell then, Glorfindel and Lindir."

As the other two Elves departed, Legolas whirled around, furious. "Mornereg, that was ungracious of you! If you want to speak, do so without commanding my friends like your subjects. Did you forget that Glorfindel is an Elf-lord? And I will not have you speaking so lowly to Lindir!"

"My youngest brother, they are but Elves of Imladris. I care not for them, although I did note Glorfindel's status. As for your friend, he is but one of many in lord Elrond's house – not someone that I should care for."

"Mornereg!"

At that moment, when tensions were drawn thin, Nimthôn entered their discussion, closing their circle. His second brother was always the peacemaker, constantly attempting to quiet them both. Oft times, his attempts were in vain, for Mornereg despised Legolas and Legolas in turn mistrusted Mornereg. Now, they had yet again irritated each other – one with his callousness; the other with his insistence. It was a desperate struggle in which Nimthôn stepped into. "That was uncouth of you, Mornereg. Legolas, do not pay any heed to him. Why can we not just talk of pleasantries, instead of leaping at each other's throats?"

"Yes," said Mornereg, his voice seemingly benevolent. Legolas, though, sensed an undercurrent of resentment and scorn flowing through that smooth trickery. "Why not? My youngest brother, our father left for Imladris due to your return. I surmise correctly, do I not?"

The Elven prince kept his silence.

"Keep your tongue still, then. Our father came, leaving us to guard his throne. Not long after he arrived at lord Elrond's house, he sent us a message to come swiftly to Imladris. Now why was that? Lord Elrond told us that you returned wounded, undoubtedly by Orcs. He healed you, and here you are, standing before us. But I have my doubts, brother. How did you allow yourself to become captive and why is your hair shorn?"

"Mornereg, cease this!" Nimthôn cried out angrily.

"Those are pointless questions asked by meddling fools, Mornereg," said Legolas; barely able to keep his own voice calm, so enraged was he. "If you should want to know, ask lord Elrond. Do not attempt to condescend to me, for I can read your expressions and your words by experience! Tell me one thing then, brother of mine: was your delay in any way influenced by my return? Do not lie, for I have no patience for your wiles."

Mornereg smiled, like that of a serpent and upon that fair face, it seemed a dreadful thing. "You are sharp, my brother. Our delay was due to a quarrel. Yes, it was over your return and should it be for anything else?" The Elf turned away from his brothers and strode calmly over towards the corner of the room.

"For my defense of you, he nearly wounded me."

"Nimthôn, is that true? I do not wish blood split over a senseless argument."

"T'was not senseless, youngest brother. Why should we welcome you back like before, ere you left for this quest with the Fellowship? You have gained much anger – which I see. Perhaps your foes instilled in you a bit of their savagery, for your own words are wild and wroth, full of self-importance and hatred."

At this, Legolas strode over to Mornereg; his mind seethed with rage and he clenched his teeth as if to bite back his retort. This, though, proved worthless. "Self-importance and hatred? That belongs to you and not to anyone else! You have hated me since I was young, barely a child in those years! And now you still detest me – your own kin and blood? Tell me – why does your hatred burn so violently?"

"You allowed our fair mother to perish! Does that answer your question, youngest brother?"


	15. Malevolence in Hiding

Author's Comments: Thank you Dark Eyes for catching my mistake on Chapter 14 – I noticed it too, but I didn't correct it until you saw the same thing as me. It's now corrected, as are all of my formerly vague areas that others have pointed out. Thanks to all you guys for feedback and for your sharp eyes! Also, answering Dark Eyes' question, just in case anyone is confused: the reason why Thranduil sent for his sons is because he's going back to Mirkwood. His sons had taken over his leadership for the time being. Now that he's headed back, he wants them to meet Legolas just to see how he is after his healing – Thranduil knows the situation but he's not able to stay long enough to see a fully recovered Legolas by himself. Therefore, he sent Mornereg and Nimthôn as messengers; in order to do that, they will have to meet with Legolas – hence the confrontation. Hope that didn't confuse anyone! ;;;

**Shadows Amongst the Leaves**

Chapter XV 

Legolas narrowed his eyes as he stepped back, away from Mornereg. His brother smiled at him, a malicious expression that only further enraged the young prince. "This is the reason for your quarrels with me? This is why you detest me beyond all things? Tell me, Mornereg – when have you ever considered others your equals? Your arrogance is hateful. As for Mother's death, I am innocent of all blame. Nimthôn knows, for he witnessed Mother's last moments."

Mornereg shook his head, laughing softly. "Legolas, Legolas – you still do not understand. I do not care for Nimthôn's testimony, or for your protest. I saw what I saw upon entering. Are you accusing me of being false?" So saying, the Elf approached Legolas. "Your denials blacken your name and Father cannot see that, for he is blinded by his wealth. Tell me, Legolas but one thing: did you allow Mother to die?" Seizing him by the chin, he forced his head up, and Legolas glared at him, wrathful. "Did you?"

"Mornereg, that is enough!"

"Silence, Nimthôn!" snapped Mornereg. "Hold your tongue, else I decide to silence it for you!"

"Mornereg!" Legolas wrenched his jaw away from his brother's rough grasp, and turned his back on him, walking towards the chair. He could not remove the feeling of Mornereg's fearsome hold on his face, for his brother's strength rivaled his own. He feared losing his composure; the situation nearly came to blows. If it did, blood would flow and murder could easily become anyone's first prerogative in times of pressure. He did not want to desecrate lord Elrond's sacred home; the Elven abode of Imladris. Unbuckling his baldric, he placed his quiver and bow on the chair. As for his knife, he laid it on the table.

There would be no bloodshed during this confrontation.

"My brothers, lay your weapons aside. I already fear the outpouring of blood and violence beyond our means. The lord Elrond keeps a quiet house and our shouts will not be coupled with death and injury."

"That is wise counsel, Legolas," said Nimthôn as he unstrapped his short sword and bow and quiver. "For I know how easily you are insulted by haughty words. Mornereg, follow suit. Your anger is quick and vile."

"I see. Both of you against me, as it used to be. Very well then, my brothers – I will forego my weapons. Legolas, speak fairly when you address me. You are younger, and therefore you must show courtesy."

"Courtesy is shown when respect is given, Mornereg. You only give me disdain. Place your weapons down; it matters not where. No blood will be shed. Your words reflect the speech of one that I confronted down in the great hall ere I met you."

"I see," said Mornereg as he unbuckled his sword from his hip. "Is that why you bleed, my brother?"

Legolas bit his lip, seething within. How did Mornereg become a thorn in his flesh? Though his brother harbored bitterness and hostility, Legolas did remember the days when Mornereg was at least approachable. He used to ride with his brothers, when Nimthôn was not yet a peacemaker or Mornereg such a nuisance and troublemaker. Mornereg did occasionally irritate him but during those years of merriment, they did not threaten to spill blood with every quick word. It was only after their mother's death when the flames of rage and misunderstanding destroyed their peace.

It was the day when all grievances were unleashed.

"Yes, Mornereg. You agree with the Elf; however, I do not wish to contest you on that. Your accusation has broken out yet again, and I have protested it on many occasions. And yet, it falls on deaf ears."

"That is because I am true in my belief."

"And I say that you are false! I attempted to save her life! Only ill timing and a turn of fate's hand prevented me from doing so. There were Orcs to kill; how could I reach her if my path was barred? Can you not understand that?"

"That is your argument but paying heed to it will make me a fool. I see the anger lit in your eyes; you despise me, do you not?" Mornereg laid his sword and bow and quiver aside, propping them against the wall. As Nimthôn gave him a look, the Elf stepped away from his weapons, for they were still too close at hand.

"I could say the same for you," replied Legolas as he strode away from the table, keeping his sight on Mornereg. He did not trust his brother; he once did. Once, many years ago, when they did not accuse each other of hatred and murder. But those days were past and he now had to confront the ugly truths that he had ignored during his innocent years. He was full-grown and able to stand his own ground against his foes, be they foul or fair. However, he did not know which torments were worse – those of his people or those of his enemies. He walked over to the bed and instead of sitting – a mistake if there ever was one, should Mornereg assail him – leaned against the bedpost, letting his sight wander from the aggravated Nimthôn to the confidently smirking form of Mornereg.

How his eldest brother could twist a smile! A Silvan Elf, Sindarin in origin, could not be this callous, this presumptuous! His father told him that during the Second Age, Sindar Elves were the bearers of fair songs and peaceful thoughts. Even during the First Age, from gleaning through some ancient manuscripts in his father's study, he read that the Noldor were glorious warriors. All of their Elf-lords held high ranks and many fulfilled their deeds, while some fell to their pride and was thus destroyed. He had shuddered reading about their fate and now, this same chill meandered along his spine as he scrutinized Mornereg's crafty expression.

He did not like it.

"Legolas, you remained silent during my questions. So answer them now. How came you to become the Orcs' captive and why, my brother, is your hair shorn? It is most unbecoming of you."

"Mornereg, has he not told you that those were a fool's questions?"

"Nimthôn, do not attempt to dissuade me. He stands as if alert and I only wish to test him, seeing if he still has his senses intact." In saying this, the gauntlet was thrown and Legolas took it, for insults he would not have.

Crossing his arms, the Elven prince spoke. "Most uncouth, my brother. Very well then, you shall receive your answers. I am saying them by my own will, and not by your coercion. I fell because I sought to bring aid to my companion, a valiant man from Gondor. In coming to his aid, I became captive. As for my shorn locks, you can undoubtedly guess with your noble knowledge what befell me. Lord Elrond has told you much; you need not ask for anymore from me."

"And did you save this man of Gondor, Legolas?"

A stab of guilt, of painful knowledge. Boromir died. He had failed to save or protect him, although he tried his hardest. Merry and Pippin were also taken and Gimli was struck during his own stand. Legolas tasted bitterness welling within his throat; he swallowed hard. He had jested to Gimli for his slowness of foot; now the Dwarf could say the same and he could not deny it. He had fallen behind them all, in both speed and grace. Reluctantly, Legolas lowered his eyes. By doing this, he admitted to Mornereg that he had not saved Boromir and his silence carried the message. His speed was stripped ere Aragorn and Gimli found him, for he could not walk or run, nor stand. As for his grace, that was taken as well by vengeance. This was a bitter loss for him and a triumph gained by his brother.

Mornereg chuckled beneath his breath and in that laughter Legolas heard unveiled contempt.

"Hmph. So I thought. You failed to save Mother and you also failed your companion. This seems to be your bane, does it not, Legolas?"

"That is none of your concern."

"It _is_ my concern!" These words were nearly shouted and Legolas looked up, so sudden was his brother's reaction. He glanced quickly at his second brother; Nimthôn gazed warily at Mornereg and retreated a few steps. Nimthôn's face bore fright and Mornereg stared back at him, as if able to feel his dismay. Something cold entered into Legolas' soul and he uncrossed his arms, letting them hang by his side. Tension crossed his brothers' faces and Legolas felt the atmosphere around them change. He gazed hard at Mornereg, now mindful of his every movement and word. "It is my concern, youngest brother! Because of your faulty ways, you can never save those that matter to you!"

"You know not what you say!" Legolas shot back fiercely. "In both times, there were foes on either side of me! How do you expect me to save lives if I could not even save my own? The savior must be living first!"

"Then you are not a proper savior!"

"How can you claim that, Mornereg? Is it because you were able to defeat the Orcs with your soldiers? I fought alone, slaughtering my path through the palace! I knew our mother was unguarded and therefore I seized the initiative to fight my way to her!"

Mornereg tipped his head upwards, as if snubbing his reply. "And yet, you failed."

"That is unjust, brother," said Nimthôn cautiously. "We were all out fighting alongside Father and our kinsmen against our foes. You yourself did not notice Mother's peril till it was too late – do not look at me like that. That was the truth. Did you not remember Legolas' stand during the Battle of the Five Armies? He proved himself worthy and he also saved your hide."

"His past achievements cannot blot out his errors."

"Let fall your pride, Mornereg!" His brother's stubbornness matched his, and Legolas gritted his teeth in annoyance. Perhaps Mornereg did this to raise a din in lord Elrond's house, which he did not want to be a part of. Striding towards the table, he glimpsed his silver-hafted long knife. His bow and quiver lay on the chair, untouched and marked by his hands alone. But he did not need his weapons now. Turning around, he faced Mornereg who stood near to his corner of the wall. "This is getting us nowhere. Unless we wish to disturb lord Elrond's peace, I say that we should call a truce."

Mornereg crossed the floor in four swift paces, coming face to face with Legolas. He placed his hand on the table and in doing so, also snatched Legolas' wrist. "There will be no truce this time, brother of mine. We are going to talk about this in our own manner. Nimthôn, should you feel yourself not worthy enough to stay, you may leave." He tightened his grip, and Legolas glared at him, infuriated. Mornereg's fingers dug into his flesh and already he felt pain.

"Very well then, brother. We shall talk about this in our own way."

* * *

Thranduil dismissed his manservant from the throne room. There was yet another task done during the night, and the Elf-king now felt weary. Upon his arrival back at Mirkwood, his subjects greeted him gladly, for a kingdom without its king was indeed dull; however, Thranduil had no doubt that his people spent their time in feasting and song. He did not begrudge them their leisure, as long as they were not too drunk to do their duties. Seventy years ago, he found two of his Elves in the wine cellar asleep; they had drunk much of his wine. For their punishment, they became patrol archers – they had allowed all of the Dwarves to escape. 

But he did not find that anymore. With the threats issuing from Dol Guldur and with dark forces about the lands of the Free People, his kinsmen became disciplined and alert. Constantly, they patrolled the borders of Northern Mirkwood, growing ever cautious as they neared Southern Mirkwood. The Enemy's stronghold stood tall and menacing there, and none of the Silvan Elves could topple it down with their arrows. It was a desperate fight to stay alive, for both Elves and Men.

He could not bring himself to sleep as of yet. Legolas had stood in his dream and walked; for a while, his path was lit and the young Elf hastened ahead. The tears before were forgotten. Thranduil still remembered his terror at hearing his other sons' names being spoken in Legolas' anguished voice. But now, his youngest child had met his brothers, albeit he sensed that something had gone awry. Legolas stiffened, as if in response to a threat and he bared his teeth in anger. Who was it that provoked him so?

Could it be Mornereg, his eldest? He remembered the ill feelings the two shared ere the Fellowship formed, and Thranduil could only watch in Legolas' dream as the Elf spoke words defending his honour and dignity. It was about his late wife, the queen. Were they still quarreling over this?

* * *

"The Orcs have shorn your hair. What pretty work they did, Legolas," Mornereg mocked, reaching for Legolas' hair in malicious amusement. "What else did they do to you, brother? Do you bear scars elsewhere, for your face is absent of their treatment." 

Legolas turned his head, as to thwart the unkind touch of his brother's hand. "Most uncouth, brother. Not only do you mock my honour in defending my companions and our esteemed late mother, but you also demand to see what should be hidden. Would it that Father were here to see to our quarrel! Mayhap you would still your vicious tongue in his presence."

Mornereg was not an Elf that liked the truth. More so, he disliked eloquence from an inferior, and he considered Legolas as his subordinate. This was not secret in Thranduil's house even amongst the youngest – Nimthôn well knew this. As for the prince caught in the snare of his brother's malice, Legolas indeed found himself trapped. With Mornereg's fingers bruising his wrist and the terrible glare in his brother's grey eyes, the younger prince felt as if he faced another descendant of Gothmog. That, and his weapon were so close at hand. With a dreadful premonition of things to come, Legolas attempted to wrench his wrist away.

"What is it that you fear, Legolas?" Mornereg said icily, leaning closer. "Is it the fact that you are no longer pristine? Or that the Orcs have made you one of them? What did they do to you, brother of mine?"

"Mornereg!"

Nimthôn's tremulous voice mirrored the feelings roiling within Legolas' breast. What did Mornereg want from him? Did he want to know that Saruman bound him to an ominous curse that tormented him? Or that the Orcs beat and brutalized him until he sought death? Was that what Mornereg so wanted to hear from his lips? "Mornereg, that is not for you to know," he replied, holding his brother's cruel gaze. Truly, Elven prejudices were strong! And they were now his bane!

"Let me know if my assumptions are correct, brother. We all know the Orcs punished you with rod and lash, for you bear their marks. They corrupted you with darkness, for your eyes do not lie. Beauty is one thing they hate, and they sought to remove it. Your reluctance to reveal further details only leads me to a baser thread of thought. Is that not so?"

Legolas stared back, silent.

"Let me tell you your worst fear, Legolas. It is a fear that even now slithers around your heart and seeks its destruction. You feel tainted, do you not? The beatings, the breaking of bones, and the drawing of blood are small compared to the injuries of the soul. The Orcs have done more to you than you will let us know. After all, what is a minor ailment like the stripes across one's back?" Mornereg smiled smugly, as if pleased at himself for guessing Legolas' turmoil. "They seized you, did they not? They were not amused by your strength, and under the guidance of their rabble, sought to break it."

Nimthôn strode closer, albeit staying a safe distance from the two. "Brother, please hold your tongue!"

Mornereg continued as if he never heard his kin's plea. "They plundered you, am I right, Legolas? Not satisfied with the violence already visited on your body, they vanquished you through the only means they had left. I am amazed that you continued with your broken fellowship with such dire injury! A violated soul is no good for the purity of the journey!"

As his brother spoke, Legolas ceased his struggle, only to blanch at the accuracy of Mornereg's words. Not only were his brother's assumptions correct but also the scorn in his voice clearly revealed how Mornereg thought of him. Tainted. Unclean. Foul. Fell, like the same creatures that broke him. So corrupted and shattered that he clearly was of no aid to the remaining members of the Fellowship. Whereas once he was distinctly Elven, a creature of light and beauty…now…now, he was a fallen soul. A soul that wandered the paths woven by fate and her emissaries. A soul seeking redemption – a tortuous road that continued to gnaw at him from within. Aragorn, Gimli, and Gandalf insisted in his help for the rest of the quest; this was but a small honour. And yet here, he heard words that violated his resolve; that breached the walls already built in his heart.

Legolas crumbled, his knees weak. Every word his brother spoke was a missive of hate, of anger. As he felt Mornereg releasing his grip, the Elven prince sank to the floor, his smaller frame trembling. Sobs threatened to tear his chest, to pour unbidden from his closed eyes. Choking in the realization of such hate and the memories of his torment, Legolas found it hard to breathe. He was tainted! This he knew from his own experience, and also the coldness of Elrond's formerly hospitable abode. He thought he had cast it aside, had left it to wilt as his spirit grew stronger – but alas! He was still frail, still unable to see himself as the once innocent, laughing, and singing Elf that left Imladris. According to Mornereg, he was nothing.

Perhaps he truly was nothing.

"Mornereg, you blackheart!" Nimthôn spat, his footsteps loud against the floor. "Whatever possessed you to say those words, brother? If Father was here, he will have your heart in his hands! You do not have the right to judge what you have not undergone!"

Legolas could sense Mornereg's sneer. "But what I said was no falsehood, looking at the pathetic form at my feet. He _is _nothing, Nimthôn. It is a shame that Father could not have borne a son more worthy of his title. Instead, Mother and he conceived what I consider something less than a bastard. Even a bastard child would have more courage than him."

"You!" The second brother nearly yelled. "I consider you less than even that for your words! You are no brother of mine!"

Pain flooded Legolas from Mornereg's invective. Tears streamed hotly down his face, over the fingers hiding his eyes, and dripping to the receiving floor. Breathing was difficult as he choked on his tears, feeling his body shaking from the force of his sorrow. His mouth was dry and salty, tasting of brine and his hands shook as if controlled by his inner agony. Screams of pain from within tore at his throat, seeking release. If only his Father was here! _Ada_, he called his father even now, sometimes in guilt. The last he called him that was in his dream. He never met his father in person from the day he left for Imladris. He sorely missed him, and the thought of his father's face if he heard Mornereg's insult only soothed him for a moment.

His father was not here.

"He is a blemish upon the House of Thranduil. He must not be allowed to represent us."

"Mornereg! If you think that Father considers you better, I pray to the Valar that your pride will be your downfall."

"Legolas is not my brother. As you have forsaken your ties to me, I no longer consider him such. He was ill chosen for this quest, and has jeopardized not only his own life but also the lives of his companions. I will not suffer him to live!"

Nimthôn's voice rang in clear and sharp. "You will not suffer him to live? Who gave you the judgment of who lives and dies, you fool? Father will have your head if you even touch Legolas! Put down the knife, Mornereg!"

Legolas opened his eyes, startled by the vehemence in his usually mild brother's voice. Nimthôn was never so violent in his speech, even when disagreeing with Mornereg. However, this was soon forgotten as he glanced at his hands. Saruman's curse came back to him in an agonizing tide of memory, and the prince screamed. The sound of his brothers turning to stare at him was lost in the confusion of his mind.

"Mornereg!"

"He has been stricken by darkness, Nimthôn you fool! I will blot out this error, and pray that the House of Thranduil is spared!"

The young Elven prince staggered, falling onto his side as the horror of his situation overtook his weakened mind. He was an Orc! Saruman had not lied! Legolas stifled a sob, only to feel the inside of his chest constricting from panic. He was unclean! What was he after he manifested as this? Tears flowed wretchedly down his face, cooling as they trailed the path of his cheeks. He glanced upwards, only to violently jerk back as the white gleam of his knife became terribly apparent. His eldest brother intended to send him prematurely to the Halls of Mandos, to be rid of his presence within the realm of Mirkwood. But that could not be! His legs refused to stand; Legolas blocked his face out of reflex, shriven against the floor that now claimed him.

_"Mornereg, no!"_

The keening cry of death screamed down on him, ripping a red haze through his suddenly shattered senses. Blood wetted his side, soaking profusely the formerly immaculate clothes bestowed to him by the lord Elrond. Pain screamed in unison with his own voice, now torn and ragged, crying out shrilly against his brother's malice. Nimthôn stared at him in disbelief and agony, even as he held back Mornereg's murderous hand that threatened to complete the bloody task. Fire burned through him, sharp and searing, jerking him in painful seizures. His voice lost its intensity and faded, even while his vision blurred.

"Legolas! _No!_ Hold on, brother!" Nimthôn screamed. Another cry to match the one still lingering in his ears.

The last he saw was the form of Glorfindel seizing Mornereg and the hands that lay before him. His hands – they were no longer that of fell creatures but of his own. Pale, slender, and perfect – above all else, pure.


	16. Lost Road, New Path

Author's Comments: This is an updated version of Chapter 16, following the changes in the second half of Chapter 15. Because of the two year hiatus that I took, I was able to reprocess my thoughts and see the error of my ways in these last few rushed bits. As a result, this will make changes in Chapters 17-18 because Legolas' situation dramatically goes off into another route. Chapter 19 will be completely rewritten, and Chapter 20 and 21 will be my new chapters – hopefully in the next two weeks, I'll have time to write them. Getting back into angst is going to be hard as well – ditto with the Archaic English. If you find me slipping in the wordsmithing department, just give me some time to regain the edge of my craft.

That is all that I have to say, and thank you for staying with me. I'm sorry that I took so long of a break but now I think it was worth it. Also, I do not break promises to my fans or to myself. This is my test to finish a series, and that I will do. Consider this fic my own trial as much as Legolas shoulders his own in this story. ;;;

**Shadows Amongst the Leaves**

Chapter XVI 

"The air grows heavy, and my breath draws short," said Aragorn as he rode his steed, Hasufel beside Gandalf. It was now the second day of their journey. The tremor of war and the threat of battle lingered in every heart, even in Aragorn, son of Arathorn. His destiny lay towards Gondor and now he willingly joined King Théoden, Lord of the Mark, in facing the dread forces of Isengard. If Isengard were to fall, then only Mordor would be their sole concern. Looking up at the sky, which was tinted with the hazy light of dawn, Aragorn saw no clouds. The air was dry and hot, and he found it difficult to concentrate on his thoughts.

"It is the heaviness of facing Saruman's forces," replied Gandalf as he gently urged Shadowfax on. The white horse cantered on obediently, bearing its rider's weight with patience. "Look ahead, son of Arathorn and see what darkness lies behind us! Even now, it draws near, for we are approaching our destination."

Following Gandalf's counsel, Aragorn leaned forward and squinted his eyes. What he saw filled him with dread; yet, with the Istar, the White Rider next to him, there was nothing to fear. For from the East, where they were headed towards, a murky darkness seemed to overshadow the sun. To the North-west, as far as Aragorn could see, there were yet more shadows lurking. The Misty Mountains appeared dark and formidable, and the Ranger turned his sight away from their towering majesty.

Gandalf fell silent, as if pondering this strange occurrence, and then spoke his mind. "It is nothing to fear unless we fail in our attempt to dislodge Saruman from his plans. And failure is not something that will happen, Aragorn. I did not survive the fall into Moria and the battle with the Balrog to be slain or defeated by my fallen peer. We will battle hard and we will not lose heart. The Men of the Mark and their king are stout-hearted, steady even in the face of slaughter and darkness. We will conquer all who challenge us, although it is with pity that we must slay some who have been tricked."

"This is indeed a black night."

"Of course it is, my good friend. You do not expect to ride to war gaily, do you?"

Aragorn shook his head. "Nay! War is never an event that sane men will ride to with joy. Only crazed men, filled with bloodlust would seek swords and screaming and death, never caring about one life or another. Gimli is eager for Orc-heads; however, he is seeking vengeance against those whom destroyed his people in Moria. He is not lustful for death; no man alive would, unless he is driven from his mind. I wonder about our friend, though."

"You speak then of Legolas?"

"Yes, for we need his help in this battle. An Elf would greatly benefit us with his keen eyes and swift bow, and there is no better than he. Hopefully, he is strengthened from his rest in Rivendell. There is but one thing that troubles me: he is afraid to slay those who gave him much torment. How shall he fight if his mind is unsettled between enemy and kindred? We cannot have him wavering in indecision, lest he should forfeit his life!"

"It is his struggle, and yet, he will join us for this battle we are about to enter. My heart tells me he will come, for he is still part of our Fellowship. Alas for his choice! It is a bitter one that will consume him slowly; only he could free himself." Gandalf began to ride ahead of Aragorn but Aragorn cried out.

"Gandalf! What of his curse?"

"That is something I cannot aid him with."

* * *

Blood flowed down the trees; crimson rivers running through the stripped bark. He ran, fearful of shadows and fell things. He could no longer see or find his father – where had his father gone? Pain gripped his shoulder in a brutal vise, and Legolas stumbled, blinded by agony. Unable to see, he tripped over his feet and fell to the ground; his body hit the dark earth, awakening fire in his side. Wincing, he brought his fingers against the torn flesh and felt wetness. As he pulled his hand back, he noticed that it was blood.

Where had his father gone? Did he not say that he would not abandon him? In this forsaken darkness, he could see no light. Where was his path that ere was lit for his feet? Legolas could not move, so stricken was he by pain. This pain brought on by treachery and malice, from a knife wielded by his brother's hand. He had never thought that Mornereg would stoop to fratricide, for that was a lowly business best suited for evil minds.

And yet, he was not dead. He could not be, since he still dreamt.

But he still felt frightened and if this continued, his will would crumble and eventually forsake him. That would make Saruman's curse binding; he would never break it, then.

"Father! Where are you?"

"He speaks, although it is a plea for our father," said Nimthôn, looking quickly at the lord Elrond. "Long has he dwelt in unconscious thoughts, and I feared for his life. That accursed brethren of mine knew what he did."

"Alas that this wound was struck by an Elf!" Elrond replied. "Fell wounds of the Enemy I can heal and it would only leave a scar but this injury is not by their hands. This was given by an Elf to an Elf, and wounds as such are not easily mended. Elves have ceased kinslaying, and we live harmoniously during this age. However, from what Glorfindel and Lindir have told me, Legolas' treatment here has been less than hospitable. Some of the higher Elves have shunned him, which stems from our prejudices. You do not hold such thoughts, Nimthôn, am I correct?"

"I do not. He is my brother and he is younger than I. I fear for his welfare as well as any other Elf living in Mirkwood. Why should I give him more pain when he is not responsible for what befell him?"

Elrond looked down. "That is wise knowledge, son of Thranduil. It will aid your brother much when he returns home after these ill tidings. Your eldest brother's blow was fierce and violent; be glad that it was not his sword he used. Rather, he wielded Legolas' knife, according to your words. But even a long knife is deadly and it has cut deep. Indeed, this wound is beyond my measure to fully heal, for wounds inflicted by Elvish weapons heal slow, if not at all. And in his situation, another Elf assailed him – that only worsens the injury."

"Is there aught you could do, lord Elrond?"

"I have healed most of it but it still bleeds. If Mornereg had struck elsewhere, your brother's life would be forfeit. As it is, the injury is not fatal and has ceased to be. Glorfindel reported that you halted your brother's hand, lest he strike again and sever Legolas from Arda. That is no small task, son of Thranduil. Legolas owns his life to you for that, and Mandos will not receive his spirit within his halls. Legolas now has a choice: to aid the remaining members of the Fellowship, or to linger out his days in your father's realm. Much blood has been split, and most of it is his. I will him to find solace ere the war is over but he is an Elf mature and able. His life has not played out its full role in the world as of yet."

"Why should fate turn her hand against him?" asked Nimthôn mournfully.

"Only she knows that, Nimthôn son of Thranduil."

He heard the lord Elrond's words, for he had received back his hearing. It was the first sense that he grasped a hold of, and Legolas did not release it. There was no hope for his wound's complete recovery, for it had been struck by an Elf wielding an Elvish weapon. His own. This irony set bitterness deep within his heart; Legolas wondered at what sort of mishap had occurred. In order to prevent bloodshed, he ordered them all to remove their weapons, be it bow and quiver or sword and knife. And in doing so, it had led to near death, for the knife used was his.

Accursed night! His shunning by his kinsmen, the blow given by the Elf-lord, his lapse into the curse, and Mornereg's brutal assault all happened when that dark cloak shrouded their world! Was it still night, blackness without stars or moon? Where was Mornereg? The last he saw of him, Glorfindel came upon him, seizing his hand and wresting the bloodied knife away. Questions upon questions – hopefully this time there would be answers. Legolas thought about laying his hand upon his weapon, only to find himself lost in yet another question. Could he use his knife again, after it nearly severed his life from his body? Would he be able to wield it without bringing back terrible memories?

He needed answers to those questions as well, and he could not do so if he was asleep.

He opened his eyes.

"Legolas! You have awoken!" Nimthôn cried out, overjoyed. So his second brother was still here. He was lying in his bed, with the sheets draped over his lower body. As for his torso, he was stripped to the waist and linen wrapped the expanse of his side, hiding the wound from his eyes. Blood stained the bandages, scarlet in the light. It was a little past dawn, and the sun rose slowly. The lord Elrond sat in a chair on his right; Nimthôn stood on his left.

"Nimthôn?" asked Legolas, turning his sight over to his raven-haired brother. His brother nodded, and Legolas could see relief and happiness on his face. "Where is our brother? What happened to him?"

Elrond spoke, pulling the Elven prince's attention over to the right. "Glorfindel found him in the midst of murder, and did as his duty commanded him to. Mornereg committed a grievous act in Imladris – judgment will take place within Mirkwood, for he is your father's son. Thranduil must know that his eldest is capable of kin-slaying. As of now, the Elf-lord and seven other battle-hardened Elves are taking him back to Mirkwood. In this way, he cannot flee and he cannot lie his way out of the incident. Your esteemed brother Nimthôn insisted on your father being the one to pass judgment. "

"My apologies, lord Elrond."

"What apologies are needed, Legolas son of Thranduil? It is not your fault that Mornereg decided on fratricide; rather, Nimthôn told me you already knew the discussion was coming to an ill end. I commend you for the decision to remove your weapons, as well as commanding your brothers to do so as well."

"It prevented nothing," said Legolas, lowering his eyes. "If I had had my knife sheathed, perhaps there would have been no bloodshed. It was my weapon that Mornereg turned on me with."

"And if not yours, perhaps his own. Do not lay blame upon yourself without cause, Legolas! You are young but I will not consider you unwise. Even your brother here saw your calm instruction. Lay still for a while, young prince, for your wound mends slowly. 'Tis an ill day when Elf would strike against Elf!"

"I heard your words ere I awoke, lord Elrond. Will my injury forever be like such?"

Elrond looked at him with such sorrow that Legolas already foresaw the answer. "It is beyond my means to heal, Legolas. While it should not prove ill for you in battle, it still bleeds. Have a care, young prince. If you should choose to leave your bed, let Nimthôn aid you. His concern is true and there is no malice in his heart like Mornereg. As for your knife, that is being cleansed at this moment."

"Cleansed?"

"It has been stained with your blood. You cannot wield it into battle without it clamoring for justice unmeted. If you fight with it, it might become yet another curse against you. The purification of the blade will not take long. If you should choose to take it to hand again, it will be returned to you ere noon of this day."

Legolas closed his eyes and leaned back against his pillow, his mind heavy with thought. He had asked himself this question not long ago, and even now it troubled him. There were a lot of conflicts within himself that he had to overcome. The slaying of Orcs who were once Elves, his own willpower confronting Saruman's curse, his self-worth after his defilement, and now the wielding of his own blade that nearly ended his life. Should he take it to hand again? It was just a simple weapon, forged out of steel and silver and used for battle. It was not responsible for his hurt; that alone belonged to Mornereg.

"I will take it again, lord Elrond. That is my choice."

"Very well, then. I will tell one of the Elves to bring it to you. Where shall you be found, Legolas son of Thranduil?"

Nimthôn turned his grey eyes on him, and then gazed directly at Elrond. "Where is a safe haven for him, my lord? Is there any place of solitude and quiet where we can speak undisturbed?"

"There is. Towards the eastern side of Imladris, there is a porch. Legolas, you know the way, for you were once there many months ago. You know of the passages and the steps and the garden."

"Yes, I do know of it. That was where the Fellowship formed."

* * *

Thranduil never felt so distraught in all his life. He could no longer find his son in his dreams; it was as if they had yet again been separated, and this time the chasm was wide. Legolas was nowhere in sight. He had lost him after Legolas fell, screaming in horror with a voice so raw and vulnerable that the Elven king wished to embrace his child. The night that the Orcs cruelly used him for sport, his son nearly tore his throat asunder – so dreadful was that pain. Legolas' cries of fright echoed eerily in the dark landscape, like a taunt against Thranduil's helplessness.

The screams of that terrible night and the cries emitted now were the same.

"Legolas!" Thranduil cried out, his own voice joining that of the tormented one of his son. "What has happened?"

* * *

"So this is where the Fellowship formed?"

"Yes. I sat in that seat and waited my turn, dreading when I shall be the one speaking. We lost Sméagol, also known as Gollum, remember Nimthôn? Father sent me as a messenger, and I went bearing this ill news. Never did I think that my life would be changed here. Lord Elrond sent me as a representative of our people, for I was one of the Nine Walkers."

"Do you regret obeying Father's order, Legolas?"

This question, asked so gently and caringly, threatened to break his composure. Legolas turned his sight away from his brother and glanced at the mountains looming far above. He followed his father's orders, expecting to return in a few days after the council. It was his first innocent thought, though it soon proved false. Instead of riding home to Mirkwood, he departed on foot with Mithrandir, two Men, four Halflings, and a Dwarf. During their quest, they encountered a Balrog in Moria – Elf's bane – and lost their guide. They fled towards Lothlórien and received rest and comfort there, only to confront evil in the guise of Orcs near Amon Hen. Their Fellowship soon broke apart, and he fell into captivity and cruel torment. Did he regret listening to his father's command?

"It cannot be blamed on Father. He did not know, Nimthôn. None of us knew what would happen."

"If Father had known, he would not send you even as a messenger. Perhaps he would have sent Mornereg or I. Although I dread to think of what his haughtiness would do for the other members of the Fellowship."

Legolas laughed but it sounded hollow to his ears and it stung of pain. "Aragorn and Boromir were both noble men, in their title and presence. Mithrandir would not stand for our brother's arrogance. Gimli, as I know, would be glad to deprive him of his tongue."

"That would benefit us much."

"Perhaps," said Legolas. Nimthôn grew silent. "Brother, what did you witness ere Mornereg stabbed me?"

"Legolas, surely you do not want to –"

The younger Elf turned, fixing his gaze upon his brother. There was much sorrow in his heart, and much violence devastating his soul. Anger and shame mingled, forcing the words out in barely veiled rage. "I want to, Nimthôn. What hideous creature did you see? I was no longer your brother lying there – I was a beast! I was an Orc – I was _nothing_! Why did you not let Mornereg commit his crime when you laid your eyes upon such a wretch?" A plaintive sob welled in his throat, and Legolas bowed his head. "Why do you still see me as worthy of your love?"

Nimthôn arose from his seat, walking over to the bent form of his younger brother. "Legolas…you have always been my brother. No curse is going to make you less than what you are. And no curse is going to create hate within me. Why do continue to see yourself as unworthy?"

"I _am_ less than what I was. I hate myself for that."

"You are no coward to be afraid of what you do not understand! But for this curse of the Enemy to rob you of your joy and purpose – do you not see that you are giving them the victory?"

Legolas shuddered, wrapping his arms around him. "I cannot find my way back. I have tried – tried to my dismay and to no avail. It has been all in vain. I cannot see any road that will free me from this prison."

A hand lay upon his shoulder, pulling him against the warmth and shelter of his brother's arms. "Listen to me, Legolas. Listen to me well, even if your spirit is crushed and torn. We are Elves, you and I. That does not change with a curse, or with the enveloping power of darkness. You have not changed, is that right?"

"I have, Nimthôn. And that is what frightens me."

"But you still care for your fellow brethren. You still wish to linger in the presence of your kin – not to smite them with blood and fury. That makes you still one of us, Legolas, despite what the voices of the Enemy tell you. As much as the sight of your curse manifest terrified me, I remembered that you are my brother. Mornereg was wrong to strike you, believing that he did our House a favor by dispatching the youngest son. You must not take his words to heart! You are _not _nothing! Legolas…" A wet splash fell upon the younger Elf's neck, causing Legolas to look up. His brother, Nimthôn, was crying. "Do not break my heart by believing in lies. Do not listen to the deceit that is tearing you apart."

The sight of his brother weeping wrung Legolas' heart sore, releasing a deluge of emotion. As Nimthôn sank to his knees, cradling Legolas against him, the younger Elf surrendered to the comforting pain of tears. To see Nimthôn in this state meant that he had caused his brother's heart to be shattered by his own loss. There was love here; love that Nimthôn said he deserved. Love even for a changed immortal, for a scarred creature that called himself a lost wanderer, an abomination in so many words. Lies, his brother said. He meant something to the remnant of the Fellowship still left intact, to his father, and to the brother that now tore his own heart into pieces if it meant giving him assurance. Tears slid down his face until Legolas could cry no more. That, in its own way, was a rare blessing.

"Legolas, promise me that you will not give up. Promise me that you will come back to us alive and well."

Gazing into the teary eyes of his brother, Legolas nodded.

Nimthôn smiled then, and that was enough.

* * *

The air grew heavier and drier, and Aragorn took a small drink from the flask he carried with him. Wiping sweat from his brow, he watched as the Riders of Rohan cantered on, disciplined and in one formation, unified and ready to stand against darkness. Ahead of them, Théoden rode, commanding his people with that innate gift of leadership that few men possessed. Éomer rode in front of his own contingent of soldiers, his white-tailed helm ever bright in the dreary gloom.

It would soon be noon. The sky was overcast, with black clouds surging across the expanse like celestial armies. Light, golden and radiant, shone from above but it never pierced through the dark mantle hanging over them. Aragorn raised his eyes and beheld the clouds rising high above his head. It was a storm breaking, he thought wearily. A storm that called forth all evil things, whether they be flesh or spirit. Gandalf told him that from behind, the storm of Mordor followed them.

So it was that they proceeded to go into war.

Aragorn lowered his sight and looked ahead. They still had many hours left for riding, and what their fates were only time and the deities knew. The deities of Man, of the Elves, and of many other creatures unknown. Whether or not these fell beings were even considered by someone divine was a matter that he knew naught of.

"_Mornie__ alantië,_" he said, speaking Elvish to himself.

Darkness had fallen.

* * *

"This is your knife, Legolas. Here, take it." Legolas curled his fingers around the knife, feeling the cold steel hard and reassuring against his palm. "Thank you, my friend. May the blessings of my father's house fall upon you." The Elf bowed and then went his way, stepping down the small stone stairs with elegant ease and grace.

His own weapon, now fair and unmarred by blood. Swiftly, with slender fingers, the Elven prince grasped a hold of the handle and smoothly withdrew the long knife, gazing upon it. It was as if there were never any stains, be they blood or gristle. Turning the blade this way and that, Legolas watched as the sunlight shone off it, reflecting nothing but silver.

"It is yours, as it always was, my brother," Nimthôn said softly as he resumed his seat next to Legolas. "Forget its use by our brother. Use it wisely, as you always have. It may be necessary in times of great need."

"It is mine but now my blood has stained it, and that is a bitter memory."

"Forgiveness is always the hardest choice, right? Even I cannot fathom how forgiving Mornereg would soothe my heart."

Legolas turned the knife towards him so that its flat surface reflected his face. It had been a while since he had last seen himself. "I do not know if I have the heart to forgive Mornereg. If forgiveness is difficult, forgetting will be just as hard." Seeing himself in that polished surface, Legolas reached forward with his other hand and stroked the blade. His hair graced his face gently, like sunlight lacing the edges of clouds. As for his eyes, they were no longer dead or dull but sadness and knowledge dwelt in them; they seemed like lakes in which all the mysteries beneath could never be fully dredged. His face had regained its flesh, returning to its former slenderness, losing the gauntness that he abhorred. Looking at himself, Legolas saw a fair visage that had lost much gaiety and innocence. It was like beauty veiled by shadow.

This was what he was now.

"I will hold your promise close, Nimthôn, if that will bring me redemption."

"You will find your path. I dare not think of failure."

"Yes. Fate might be merciful…if she spares me."

Without speaking a word, Nimthôn smiled. "And even if she does not, you will not lose heart. This I believe." Years ago, Nimthôn had supported him like this; close in brotherly love and without shame. It was shortly after their mother's death when Mornereg accused him of wrongdoing and murder. Still in shock over the brutal find of his mother's corpse, he found himself unable to take Mornereg's accusation without losing his composure. He had fallen to his knees in front of his father and the entire court, trembling with anger and sorrow. Before his eldest brother could speak another word, Nimthôn raced in and comforted him with gentle words. His second brother defiantly defended him, thus starting the feud between the three of them.

But it was not Nimthôn's fault; he had saved him from despair and bitterness that day. And now, his brother spoke similarly, easing uncertainty from his heart. Legolas felt all of his sorrow, anguish, and relief welling up within him, and he smiled back. He had never sought another's comfort before, unless it was that of his brother and of his companions, Aragorn and Gimli. How long had Nimthôn lived his life without experiencing the closeness of family? Were they only kin by blood or were they kin by similar traits and emotions? Thinking like this, Legolas returned his brother's affection.

"Thank you, Nimthôn."

"As much as I thank you, Legolas. It is difficult to endure in Mornereg's presence; how glad I am for a brother like you! And you resemble our mother so much, from her appearance to her composure. It is just as well – with all of the turmoil in our family, we need someone tranquil and innocent."

"That is something which I seek to regain," said Legolas. He clenched the knife tightly in his hands, as if biting upon leather to ease discomfort. "It has been taken from me with each hurt that I have endured and survived."

"Do not say that, brother. You believe falsely yet again. I see much innocence in you; else you would not have stood against Mornereg like that. Many fear those who are stronger and mightier than they but not many would confront their foes."

"There still is a foe that I dread facing," Legolas murmured, his voice nearly lost in its softness. "'Tis I."

"You will surmount that difficulty – believe me, brother."

Before the Elven prince could reply back, a fleet-footed Elf clad in grey bounded up the stairs and across the porch. His eyes were bright and wide; Legolas could see urgency and wonder in his expression. "Lord Elrond bids me to bring you forth! There is an eagle here, summoned by the Lady Galadriel! Something about needing your services for battle, Legolas son of Thranduil! The eagle mentioned taking you to a place called Helm's Deep, though we Elves have never heard of such a place!"

Legolas quickly stood. Could this be the battle that Gandalf mentioned ere he left them? Helm's Deep – was it near Rohan? Nimthôn glanced at him, confused and concerned, and Legolas nodded, knowing his thoughts. He felt fear as well as excitement, for he soon had to make a decision about whether he would slay Orcs or not. This was a choice that was still undecided – would this fight help him find his answer? Or would it only increase his fear of slaying his twisted kinsmen? And yet, he would soon meet Gandalf and Aragorn and Gimli! He sorely missed them and he wondered if they felt the same.

"Let us go quickly then," he said, sheathing his knife and sliding it into his belt. "Nimthôn, would you mind if I ask you to retrieve my bow and quiver from my quarters? I need to meet with lord Elrond and the eagle!"

"I will fetch them for you, my brother."

"Thank you, brother. Now then – lead on!"

* * *

He could not find Legolas. Thranduil sipped absentmindedly at his wine, and then placed the chalice down. It was a pleasant afternoon; yet, without his son's presence close to him in their intertwining dreamscape, the Elf-king felt something significant lacking in his life. Where was Legolas? Did he stray so far off that there was no hope in finding him?

"Legolas, please find your way. And please, my son, reveal yourself to me."

"Gwaihir the Windlord! Lord Elrond, what is this urgent matter?"

"Ah, young Legolas! Gwaihir wishes to bring you to Helm's Deep, a fortress manned by the Men of the Mark. According to the Lady Galadriel, she has foreseen your part in this battle. It is one that you will fight alongside with Gandalf, Aragorn, and Gimli. You will be battling against the forces of Isengard."

"Isengard?" asked Legolas in consternation. Ever since his confrontation with Saruman, he had no wish to cross paths with the Istari again. But if his companions were there, surrounded by allies, why should he fear? "When should I leave, lord Elrond?"

Gwaihir lowered his beak until he nearly touched Legolas' chest. "At this moment, Legolas son of Thranduil. Time presses and waits for no one. We must be at Helm's Deep by nightfall, or else the lack of your presence there might be disastrous for all. Come now – are you armed and equipped?"

"No – not quite yet."

"I see. Where are your tools of war, young Elf?"

"My brother is off to fetch them, for I sought to hear your words first."

Elrond spoke, almost fatherly and sagacious. "Because of your wound, I would take care of yourself, Legolas. The bow and knife will be your capable weapons, as they always were. Shield your left, for though the injury is not fatal, pain would cloud your mind and err your mark. Go in grace and speed, son of Thranduil."

Legolas bowed. "Thank you, lord Elrond. If it were not for your wisdom and skill, I would not be alive by now."

"It is nothing."

"Legolas, my brother!" Nimthôn ran towards him, carrying his quiver and bow. Legolas noticed the addition of a few arrows in his quiver; the fletching was that of his brother's own make. Nimthôn smiled, and handed the weapons over to him. "There! At least when you go off to war, you will be able to properly defend yourself!" Then, as if a sudden tempest passed by his brother's face, the dark-haired Elf gazed at him sadly. The emotion in Nimthôn's clear grey eyes startled Legolas, for he saw much love and distress there. "Come back to us, all right, Legolas? Do not die during these battles, be they in foreign lands or near our home. Come back to Mirkwood, even if it is only to greet Father and I. Bear the burden of your promise. We will await your return."

"I will come back. My promise holds, Nimthôn. And if possible, please tell Father that I love and miss him, for he has aided me much during my struggles."

"It shall be done, Legolas my brother. Now go, for your friends await you."

Holding his brother's compassionate gaze forever in his mind, Legolas turned around and faced Gwaihir's golden stare. "Gwaihir, lord of Eagles – take me where I must go!"

And saying thus, he strapped on his weapons.

He was going to Helm's Deep, wherever that may be.


	17. Helm's Deep Awaits

Author's Note: Some of the dialogue in this chapter is taken from 'Helm's Deep' from The Two Towers. Minor changes in this chapter as to Legolas' situation.

Shadows Amongst the Leaves

Chapter XVII

Night had fallen quickly upon the land of Rohan, without the presence of stars or the soft radiance of the moon. Legolas glanced up at the sky, distress creasing the gentle brow of his noble face. How he longed to see the earth unveiled by moonlight and starlight from above, instead of the many torches below! The Elf kept his senses sentient, and they served him well. His keen eyes sighted a steady stream of fire below him – the only brightness in their shadowed world. Once in a while, a flare of fire erupted from below, and the Elf-prince grimaced. Nothing could be set afire that quickly, unless it was wood or straw.

Lines of flame traveled in a disciplined formation on the terrain below; Legolas strained his eyes and narrowed in on what he believed to be horses. From the ghastly crimson glow of those wielded torches, he thought he glimpsed another darker mass away on his left. The ones wielding fire had to be the forces of Isengard, for only foul creatures and beings would destroy tree and brush. The Elven prince narrowed his eyes. That would make the darker shapes on his far left the Men of the Mark, then. Mithrandir, Aragorn, and Gimli would be with them.

A battle was about to be joined.

As if sensing his thoughts, Gwaihir spoke. "My good Elf, that is Helm's Deep that you see ahead of you. This is where your destiny awaits you."

"A battleground where I shall soon fight myself," said Legolas, holding on to the eagle's talon. "For this is not only a battle against the minions of Saruman. I shall soon see if I could follow my purpose here, and cast aside the truths of the fallen Istari. That is a path that is still undecided."

"Very well spoken, Legolas Greenleaf. Now look ahead and be wary, for you shall soon find yourself readying for the gear of war." Gwaihir flapped his wings again, soaring higher towards the moonless sky. He released no cry, for it would be foolish for their enemies below to know of their whereabouts. Instead, the lord of Eagles flew upon the wind, gaining speed through his mighty wings that could blot out the stars if they shone.

Legolas looked ahead, noting his surroundings and that of Helm's Deep. Though it was night, the Elf could see it from afar. A strong and mighty fortress rose out of a gorge in betwixt the mountains; its foundations being the hills below it. The gorge stabbed its crags towards the sky, becoming steep and narrow as it bent its faces northwards beneath the dominating shadows of the surrounding mountains. Stone jutted out like protruding faces barricading the fortress within. Legolas studied the stronghold as Gwaihir brought him ever closer; at the same time, he kept his eyes on the Men of the Mark below, whom now glanced up at him. Doubtlessly, he seemed a strange creature being borne by the wings of a great eagle.

Helm's Deep towered tall in the gorge above the hills, its shadow blending into the very blackness of night. According to its construction, Legolas could make out stonework done by skilled hands. Thick and high walls rose from the ground up, at least eight feet thick by his calculations. The twenty feet high walls could be a deterrent against archers, though the foes of Isengard scaling ladders would not be out of the question. Raising his sight from the sturdy front presented, the Elf looked hard at the single tower that stood alone above the fortress. A decent watchtower, Legolas thought with the mind of a warrior and strategist. If there were enough men manning the front walls, including the reinforcing battlements, it would be difficult for any foe to surmount the crucial strategic site. It would prove hard, indeed, what not with the Men of the Mark, Aragorn, Gimli, and least of all, Mithrandir the Istar.

An Elf just arrived, wounded and indecisive might still provide some aid.

"I will now cry forth to alert your friends below, for the Ranger knows my voice and its signal. He is of Man, and therefore cannot see in this villainously dark night but Rangers have knowledge of friendly and fell beasts. He should be able to keep your allies from demanding my existence null."

"Cry forth then, Gwaihir the Windlord, ruler of the eagles!"

Gwaihir released a ringing tone that permeated the sky and the earth, towards their fell foes and their trustworthy allies, against the flames of Isengard and for the swords of Rohan. His voice rang high above all, telling some of a newcomer's arrival and of times of change to come.

Aragorn saw King Théoden suddenly jerking his head upwards, followed by his men and Gimli as well. The Ranger listened closely, and soon heard the sweet but fierce cry of a sky-borne eagle. He recognized that voice and to whom it belonged. Gandalf had gone, explaining the need of attending to an errand unbeknownst to them but Aragorn did not need the Istari's aged ears to know who had arrived. Gwaihir the Windlord now watched over them with commanding golden eyes.

But the Windlord would not come to battle unless the Lady Galadriel bid him to at all speed possible. Could it be that Legolas had returned? Gandalf did mention the Elf rejoining them for later fights, stressing the battle of Helm's Deep as one that Legolas was destined to participate in. Legolas was formerly at Rivendell; if Gwaihir could take him there in less than a day's flight, then this was plausible. The eagle would only need a few hours to deliver the young prince back to them, coming with the Lady's welcome and tidings.

"Is that the eagle that we are hearing?" asked Gimli as he approached Aragorn, small amongst the tall men of Rohan. "Is it Gwaihir?"

"'Tis is, Gimli." Turning to King Théoden and Éomer, Aragorn reined his horse closer to the two. "My lord and Éomer son of Éomund, tell your men to cast down all suspicion and fear at this cry in the dark. I know this voice, and it is of a friend and ally. His name is Gwaihir, lord of Eagles, and perhaps he brings help instead of a burden. This I hold to be true."

"Do you vouch for his words, Gimli son of Gloin?" asked Théoden gently.

Gimli glanced up at Aragorn, and then back towards the elderly king. "I have traveled far with Aragorn, and I know him to be true and not a liar like Wormtongue. It may be that our friend, the Elf, has come to aid us with his blade and bow. If this is so, my lord, there is no cause for fear."

"Very well then, Gimli son of Gloin. I will tell my men, and then we shall hasten within Helm's Deep. The army of Isengard travels not far behind us."

"Do so, my lord," said Aragorn, "and may we soon stand ready for them."

"I believe Aragorn has told them, Gwaihir. I hear no din rising out of the gloom, from below or above. The sky is clear of all cruel creatures, save that the moon refuses to shine. Already we approach this mighty stronghold, Helm's Deep. It looks sturdy and constructed well enough for a siege."

"Legolas Greenleaf, you shall not witness a siege upon these stony walls, for seldom do Orcs tarry away their time," replied the eagle lord, his deep voice rumbling out of that broad feathered breast. "Look down, young Elf! See the defenders riding into their fort! It is here where you shall join them!"

The Men of the Mark, dark shadows against an even blacker ground, rode up towards Helm's Deep, going by way of a steep rampart. Their horses were trained and precise in their steps; never once did Legolas see those proud beasts buck and retreat simply because they were going into battle. It was as if the Riders of Rohan and their steeds were one. Legolas stared down at the thick wall where Gwaihir was now flying over.

"Are you going to drop me here?"

"Drop you? That is a strange question asked by an Elf!" Gwaihir said with mirth. "Nay, Legolas! I shall release you upon this wall, albeit I cannot land myself. That tower is already an impediment for my great berth!"

"Fly down slowly then, my friend. I do not wish to present myself forth with broken bones, unable to lend aid! It will be a dreary day when it would be told across hearth fires that Legolas Greenleaf, son of Thranduil the king of Northern Mirkwood, fell upon the stones of a stronghold and thereby was deprived of his own strength!"

Gwaihir chuckled. "You find amusement during times of war, young Elf."

"Nay! 'Tis only a mere distraction."

The lord of Eagles opened wide his wings in another lift upon the wind, and Legolas saw the wall quickly rising to meet him. Gwaihir flew around Helm's Deep, as if uncertain of where to land. Suddenly though, Legolas spotted Aragorn and Gimli amongst the other soldiers, and he pointed towards them. "I see my friends, Gwaihir! There, at that section of the wall!" With his keen sight, Legolas could make out the mail-clad, stout, and short form of Gimli; standing next to a regal figure, Aragorn looked kingly and commanding. The sight of his two friends ran verve through his mind, and Legolas could not wait to meet them.

But where was Mithrandir?

"It is time, Legolas Greenleaf. May fate be with you tonight."

"And may she never betray me," finished the Elf.

The soaring form of the lord of Eagles swiftly descended towards them. The Men of the Mark, busily preparing themselves for battle, glanced upwards. However, only Aragorn could tell that Gwaihir was descending. What he did not know was where Gwaihir intended to land, for the berth of the Deeping Wall was not large enough to accommodate a full-grown eagle. So he waited, while all around him, Éomer and his people took their posts and unsheathed their swords or nocked their bows. The din of shouted commands and the rallying of the soldiers surrounded him.

"My friend, release me here." Straining his eyes and stepping forward until he could see the speaker, Aragorn glimpsed a slender form kneeling upon the hard stone. There was a quiver strapped over his back, and a bow in his hand. It was none other than their companion, the Elf from Mirkwood.

Legolas had come.

The Elf raised himself to his full height, and offered forth his hand to the eagle. "Thank you, Gwaihir, lord of Eagles. May you go in peace, and carry forth the blessings of the youngest member of Thranduil's family. Fly swiftly, great lord."

"You speak ever graciously, young one. It is here where we shall part."

"Alas, yes!" Legolas lowered his hand. "Fly now, Gwaihir, and give the Lady Galadriel my thanks."

"Surely," said Gwaihir, raising himself into the air. Aragorn now saw the mighty eagle taking flight, his wings spreading out and darkening the wall. "May the battle go swiftly and victoriously!" This proclamation gave the Ranger heart, and some of the Men of the Mark cheered at hearing this. Suddenly, Aragorn felt two strong slender arms embracing him. He knew it was the Elven prince.

"Aragorn! How long it was since I have last seen you! Where are Gimli and Mithrandir?"

The Ranger smiled; glad to see his friend again after so long an absence. "Gimli is over yonder on this wall, Legolas. He has his axe bared for Orc-heads, as is his fashion. Gandalf went off on an unspoken errand. Come, my friend! Let us prepare you for war. Did you bring your weapons?"

Legolas released him, and nodded. "Yes. I am well-equipped to give aid to these people alongside you, Aragorn. So this is Helm's Deep, the fort of the Men of the Mark. Let us meet Gimli, for I long to speak with him! It is lonely within lord Elrond's house when there is no one to talk to."

"No one?" This surprised Aragorn. There were other Elves there – did none speak and invite Legolas within their circles of counsel? "Elrond's house is never bereft of merriment and fair speech and song."

"They are cold towards strangers, even if they are kindred."

Aragorn clasped the Elf's shoulder, shaking him gently to rid him of his melancholy. He knew what Legolas spoke of, and of the harshness of Elven prejudices. It must have grieved the tenderhearted Elf terribly to find rejection instead of acceptance upon his return; this also saddened Aragorn. The hospitality of his foster father's household was well renowned, and because of cruelty, Legolas had seen something other than when he had first arrived at Rivendell. How could those Elves be callous if they had never experienced agony and torment?

"Come then, Legolas. Let us meet Gimli, and then clad you in mail and helm."

The night stood strong and black; below, from where he sat, he could see a myriad of flames – some in orderly lines, and others scattered like crimson stars. Legolas glanced down at Gimli, who stood confidently and grimly beneath him. The Dwarf's axe rested on his shoulder, whilst Gimli held the haft. The faint red glow of the torches below illuminated the iron of the mighty blade with a scarlet light like that of blood.

Legolas shivered, and turned back to focus over the wall. The breastwork of the Deeping Wall was sturdy and strong, built out of stone chiseled by diligent hands and mortar spread by men thinking of defense. His calculations were not wrong. The wall was wide enough for four men to walk on, and high enough so that only tall ladders could scale its immensity. The Elf had no doubt in mind that the forces of Isengard would have ladders equipped, for how else would they assail a fort? He now sat on the parapet that protected the soldiers defending the wall, for this was where he could see his enemies.

His enemies. Adversaries. Foes. Carrion for vultures and ravens. The Elf closed his eyes briefly, only to reopen them. Orcs were once Elves; Saruman said this ere he gave him over for sport. Mithrandir had not denied the fact but instead spoke openly of it and confirmed the fallen Istari's words. This drew a shudder from Legolas. Once fair and kind, pitiful and gentle; now twisted and cruel, mean and perverse. He could still feel their grimy hands grasping at his flesh, drawing blood and throwing him on to the hard earth. Their foul breath upon his neck as they stripped him of his clothes, baring his back for whips and blades. Their feral eyes burning with hatred as they threatened to slay him in the end, when their sport was done. How he had cringed when the agony grew worse, and of how he resisted when his pride overcame his fear.

Orcs were once Elves. Elves could become Orcs. He could become like an Orc. He was in the guise of one when his will fell, with no thanks towards Saruman who cursed him doubly for his opposition. Any Elf could become one, if Melkor or Sauron willed it with vengeance. To become a minion pledged to the Dark Lord was a horrid thought; Legolas stared down at Gimli, who now spoke.

"This is more to my liking! Ever my heart rises as we draw near the mountains. There is good rock here. This country has tough bones. I felt them in my feet as we came up from the dike – that you missed, Master Legolas. Give me a year and a hundred of my kin and I would make this a place that armies would break upon like water."

Of course Gimli loved the mountains; he was a Dwarf. Legolas did not like Helm's Deep much, not after he became acquainted with the place. After Aragorn clothed him in mail and helm, he left for the Deeping Wall and strode around. Helm's Deep felt of many battles past, and of bloodshed. He did not like this place, for he loved the trees and tranquil rivers near his home. He was only a warrior due to these dark times; no Elf desired killing and the loss of life, unless it was of many Elf-lords during the First and Second Age. Their folly led them to their downfall, nearly destroying their race. Although Melkor was behind it, the Elves were not entirely blameless in their actions.

Below him, Gimli grunted. Flames still burned, crimson and terrible, and Legolas thought then of a vision that he had nearly forgotten. Lothlórien set afire and razed, blackened by malice and its inhabitants driven out. He averted his sight, trembling. Not now at this crucial time! Not when they were confronting their enemies! He was his father's son! Why should he relive old torments?

He was about to shed blood. The Orcs of Saruman were going to attempt storming through their gates, slaying anyone in their path. Whether they were of Men, Dwarves, Elves, or even simple beasts, all were going to fall if the enemy took hold of their ground. Legolas fingered the fletching of the nocked arrow on his bowstring. Could he still slay them, his twisted kinsmen? Was it an act of mercy to rid them of their perverse lives? Was he in the right to do so? He glanced down at the sheath slung over his right thigh, studying the silver-hafted long knife. This was his strongest weapon in close combat but it nearly took his own life. Mornereg took it upon himself to enact justice by his own hand, so that their father's house could be spared the horror of a blemished creature.

But that was not justice – that was nearly murder.

Was this any different?

Loosing his tight-gripped hold on the arrow, Legolas stared at the sky. This was a decision he had to make. If he did not slay them, they would do so to him. There was no mercy involved in this battle. His foes had to die; it was the way of survival.

But did that make it right?

Legolas shook his head, confused. Ever since his torture and Saruman's giving of this dark knowledge, he did not know what to believe. Mornereg nearly slew him, perhaps thinking that he was ridding his father of an unnecessary burden; that belief shocked and grieved him. It still remained a void within his soul, as if unresolved. He could not bring himself to forgive Mornereg, though the elder was his brother. Blood tied them close but different outlooks separated them. The spilling of blood only further widened that unspoken chasm. Grief dwelt deep in him, and if he willed himself to, Legolas would have wept.

Mornereg held himself as a higher authority, wielding an unbending rod of judgment and conviction. Was he about to do the same with these Orcs – these creations of Melkor and Sauron – who had no say in their birth? Did he hold himself above them? They were fallen Elves as well, shunned and hated by all. Legolas repositioned his arrow, so that it was ready for the first shot. The time was drawing nearer at hand, when his weapons and his conscience would have to decide the answers to these questions.

As if his instincts were correct, he suddenly heard hoarse cries and wild yells roaring hideously from below, and he turned back towards the wall, looking over it. The enemy had tried to mount an attack, but was deterred by riders whom gathered together in a tight formation, galloping over the field and towards the rampart. The many torches, flickering crimson flames, broke out of their lines, scattering swiftly over the plain. The forces of Isengard were attacking.

"The enemy is at hand!" cried forth the riders. "We loosed every arrow that we had, and filled the Dike with Orcs. But it will not halt them long. Already they are scaling the bank at many points, thick as marching ants. But we have taught them not to carry torches."

The air was stifling. Legolas breathed hard, glancing down towards darkness when lightning flashed, followed by an immense rumble of thunder. White light cracked the sky in twain, illuminating the Dike. There were many fell shapes, each struggling to climb upwards and towards the fort. Legolas squinted his keen eyes, and thought he spotted helms and shields. He looked at his bow and whispered an Elvish prayer of hope. There was going to be a hard battle fought. Many would bleed and die tonight; he prayed that he would not be one of them.

Already their foes approached, swiftly and without pause. A dark mass of moving bodies surmounted the breach, and now advanced towards the Deeping Wall. Legolas grasped his arrow, and leapt from the parapet. What was the use of a warrior if he decided to sit on his heels and to forego the fight? He gazed at Gimli, who nodded at him. "May this fight not be your last, Master Dwarf."

"As for you, Master Legolas, I also wish that." So saying, Gimli left him; axe in hand.

Legolas smiled grimly.

He would soon find his answers, or perhaps none at all.


	18. Helm's Deep Left Adrift

Title: Shadows Amongst the Leaves

Chapter 18: Helm's Deep – Left Adrift

Author: RinoaDestiny

Contact: M

_Summary:_ When Legolas undergoes torture by Orcs and falls into darkness, he questions whether or not he can ever be redeemed. Helm's Deep, alas, just might hold the first key to his troubled questions and perceptions.

_Disclaimer:_ All characters in this fanfic belong exclusively to Tolkien and his estate. I'm just writing what I think would be an interesting take on the trilogy from one or two characters' POVs. Also, some of the direct quotes in this chapter come from the 'Helm's Deep' chapter in The Two Towers.

_Author's Note:_ As I **_well_** know, you're all going to kill me and nail my head to a door or spike it on a pike after my long three-year absence. It was very rude of me, and I'm very sorry for it. I can only be grateful that I found some great fanfics on to respark my long-dead LoTR interest. I read them on a whim, and suddenly found myself rekindled – the ember being fanned. But what am I rambling about? Let us continue, and Chapter 18 has a few changes. Namely, Legolas can now use his bow along with his knife, because of a medical error I made a while back. I had his older brother stab him in the left side instead of the collarbone ('cuz that's a fatal wound, so I found out).

**Shadows Amongst the Leaves**

**Chapter XVIII**

Rain whipped down upon them, relentless in its natural fury. Drops pinged against the steel helm on the Elf's head, and Legolas brushed aside the sodden strands of hair plastered against his cheeks as he moved, nimbly but consciously guarding his left side. Shortly after lightning split the sky in twain, illuminating their foes below, the storm both above and beneath broke like waves upon the defenders. Sheets of rain, driven like iron barbs from a god's hand, pounded into them. Armor glistened wetly in the torrent, and Legolas kept his footing sure as not to slip on the treacherous stone. At that moment, he was sure Gimli had no such thoughts in his head.

This was the Dwarf's ground, just as surely as the _mallorn_ trees were for him in the Lady's Golden Wood. So it was that when he drew a bead upon any random squirming creature down below, Legolas felt the touch of uncertainty. Not only was he not accustomed to this sprawling fort but an eerie measure of unease like that of a certain Istar's voice wormed its way into his mind, plaguing him even as he loosed the shot. _All Orcs were Elves once._ He heard this, followed by his defiant cry. _You lie!_ But according to Mithrandir, Saruman had not lied.

Somewhere, in the dark and cold, laid one of those fallen Elves with his arrow in its throat.

The thought sent a shudder running through him.

The deadly whistle of many arrows, gathered together like a furious tempest, sailed down from the Deeping Wall and many found their mark. Legolas smoothly brought forth another shaft, with the full intention of protecting his allies on the battlements. His arrow was one of many that landed with a sickening thud into flesh, while other ill-marked shafts glanced off mail, helms, and shields. A black wave surged towards the gates and the wall, chanting and howling with unholy promises of bloodshed and the promise of utter annihilation.

That promise started with a returning wail of arrows speeding up in a deadly hail of death that slew many where they stood or knelt. Legolas skidded back as quickly as he could on slippery ground upon hearing the sound, but it was a narrow miss. Rohirrim fell, their bright armor stained with blood that the rain soon swept away. Amongst the flashes of lightning, as far as his Elven eyes could see, Legolas witnessed the passing of many noble warriors – their prone bodies testament to the defense of their land, their people, and their king.

In many aspects, it was not so different to his near passing because he had decided to go and save a man of Gondor from impossible odds. It was not a price he had thought of at the time but looking back, he probably would not have restrained himself from such an action. To protect, to serve with all of his abilities, and to aid and cherish those lives around him were his top priorities. His own life paled besides that of the Ringbearer's and in the end, he would have paid it dearly for any one of them.

He held that truth close to his heart, even as it began to break beneath the thoughts of his torment, of that seemingly eternal nightmare that would not cease. Saruman's ill words circled in his mind, taunting him. _Orcs were once Elves. This, you cannot deny._ He could not banish it; could not, like the final images of his torture, as the Orcs fed off of his fear, relished his pain, and ripped screams from his throat even as they tore into him. He should have died that night. _They were once Elves, if you steel yourself against the unpleasantness._ He should have died, as all Elves did when violated into such a ruin as this.

Instead, he was here, looking out and seeing a field of the dead, with the rain rolling off him, and the black masses of wild Orcs and men below his feet driven insane with bloodlust. He stood, hesitant, knowing that two of his arrows had ended lives below.

Long time ago, those lives were as sacred as his.

The clarion call of trumpets sounded, startling him; he moved swiftly towards the wall even as reinforcements arrived to flank his sides. From where he stood, the Orcs and the wild men below were advancing towards three locations: the very wall he stood upon with the Rohirrim, the causeway, and the Hornburg-gates that stood a farther apart from them. The Enemy came, charging forward like a dark tide, and as if nature was not indulging herself enough, the sky rendered itself open.

In that moment where dark and light revealed themselves, Legolas spotted the white hand of Isengard scattered across the bulk and width of the forces laid out before them. It gleamed and flickered, silver in stark contrast to the black masses bearing them. Shivering with apprehension, he looked again to see if the Elvish script for 'S' was emblazoned upon those helms and shields. They were not – alas, that did not quell the fear slowly rising in him. The Orcs that had their final sport with him bore those emblems, alike in every shape and appearance. Saruman had stood, watching him writhe and shatter in the wake of brutality, and the last things he saw before his senses dimmed and faded were white robes and painted hands.

Should he fall to these creatures again, he had no doubt of his fate. Death would be merciful but Orcs were not known for mercy. He would not allow himself to become captive again. He knew what they would do.

A cry and arrows rained down, except his as he staggered back, trying to rid that beguiling voice in his head that droned on. _Would you so easily kill them, Elf? They are a part of you, whether you deny it or not. Would you raise a hand against your family?_ Roars emitted violently from beneath their feet, but Legolas glanced wildly from side to side as the sinister words continued. _They were Elves once. I have told you as much, foolish princeling. Yet, you were able to cold-bloodedly murder them? Two of your former kin dead by your hand – how much of a warrior that makes you._

"Saruman?" Legolas gasped, his voice lost in the din of battle raging around him. His stomach turned; something was not right. "How did he-" And the answer glared back at him, piercingly bright and equally as dark. He was afraid; Saruman was not dead, and he tried to move, to run as the chaos increased around him and he heard Aragorn's voice. He glanced over, saw Aragorn racing with Éomer towards certain death and doom, and wrested himself from his frozen state.

His feet flew over the slick stones, as he followed the two that he knew and trusted beyond his life – he hoped Gimli was safe – and removed another feathered arrow from his quiver. His hand shook as Saruman's previous words lanced his heart but he would not allow his friends to fight and die without him. He was here for a reason, and it was not to lose himself in madness listening to the accusatory words of that silken-tongued and backstabbing Maia.

No matter how much the truth hurt.

Men died around him, whether from black-feathered arrows or perilous darts. Rain rippled around his shod feet in patterns, washing away the dust, grime, and gore of this battle. Orcs and Rohirrim screamed from mortal wounds received, fury, revenge, or from the Men of the Mark alone, heartbreak. The sky broke, waging its own war, sending jagged light in their direction. He ran, with the endurance of his kind through a postern-door and so intent was he on escaping his inner struggle that when two voices rang in unison, the Elf started, placing his arrow on the string.

"Gúthwinё!" The nephew of the King of Rohan raised a glimmer of light from his sheath in one smooth motion. "Gúthwinё for the Mark!"

As if rehearsed from a player's act, the man that Legolas knew and trusted so well did the same. The sword shone like a bright beacon in this accursed darkness. "Andúril! Andúril for the Dúnedain!"

Aragorn, Éomer, the swordsmen that they had rallied, and he charged headlong into the fray. It was easier for him because none of the enemies he faced were Orcs; else, he doubted the killing intent of his shots. These were wild men with beards crawling on their roaring faces and crude implements of war in their belts. Twin battering rams thudded loudly into the threatened gates as their blades thrust and swung into the crunch of bone. Legolas saw men fall in gouts of jetted crimson; others collapsed to the stony ramp with his mark in their throats or chest. _Always go for the head, the throat, and the heart during battle, my son. All else will endanger the lives of those around you, and yourself._ It was an important lesson that his father insisted he take to heart, and as he neared the gates for close combat, his knife flashed out of its sheath.

Shouts carried from voice to voice, from one man to another as morale rose among the beleaguered defenders. "Andúril! Andúril goes to war. The Blade that was Broken shines again!" Andúril shone, united with the gleaming blades of Éomer, the hardy sword craft of the Rohirrim with them, and that of his which quickly dispatched lives beyond the circles of the world. Blood and rain rippled at his feet, indistinguishable in the dark. The rams fell with a wooden thud as faces turned to acknowledge them, weapons were drawn, and shields lowered to block their advance. There, in the slippery wetness, Legolas uncoiled into action, darting gracefully yet lethally through the darkly armored masses. Soft flesh gave beneath the sharpness of his blade; he turned to dodge an attack aimed at his left side, whirling out of the direction of the strike.

It resulted in the fatal plunge of a man down into the abyss, his scream abruptly ended as he struck bottom. Many others joined his fate, harried to the brink by bloodied swords and bright eyes full of daring and courage. Those who turned to fight were impaled or cloven in twain, their arms useless. Shields clattered to the ramp as their slain holders forfeited life. Legolas glimpsed the fleeing backs of some of the survivors, along with the erratic flight of black-feathered quarrels. There was no need to retreat, for they fell short of their targets. Escaping Orcs garbled in their tongue, leaving them standing before the gates.

It was a successful defense.

The Elven archer reflected on the losses tallied here, and glanced at the sky. Elbereth had graced this chaotic night with her stars, which flickered their brilliant light above his head like a blessing from a Vala to one of the Firstborn. Lightning illuminated the passes of the South; the storm lessened. He stepped forward, keeping his eyes on the sight of the golden curves of the moon meandering its way through the fragile clouds. Buoyed by the omnipresent signs of those he revered, Legolas felt some of his anxiety slip away. Saruman's cutting words whispered still, but for now their power ebbed and left him with some peace.

Then, Aragorn spoke and his attention turned elsewhere. "We did not come too soon." The gates were damaged, albeit not severely. Legolas stepped closer to the huddle of bodies, keeping his focus on the skewed and twisted hinges and bars. This, they could not fix before the night was over. If they survived this battle, perhaps. If not – well, they would all be beyond the circles of the world and the Hornburg would become a ruin, testament to the last stand of Men and some of the other Free Peoples. But if they fell, the Ringbearer's quest lay in peril. Legolas knelt to look closely at the splintered beams, surveying the work the battering rams inflicted.

It would not be able to withstand any more, he thought. Should the gates fall, we do as well.

"Yet we cannot stay here beyond the walls to defend them." All of their heads rose, in one with Éomer's voice. "Look!" Following the outstretched length of the man's mailed arm, Legolas spotted a seething dark mass that slowly advanced from the causeway. Quarrels fletched with black feathers skittered on the stones, glancing harmlessly off the ramp. Any more delay on their part, and stricken they would be. "Come! We must get back and see what we can do to pile stone and beam across the gates within. Come now!"

Legolas straightened in one fluid movement, wincing as pain jolted his left side. Leaning against the gates, he refused Aragorn's hand, knocking it aside and fixing the Heir of Isildur with a firm gaze. _Should I die, it is of no concern to the wellbeing of Middle-earth. Should you fall, son of Arathorn, you give to Sauron the victory! Save yourself!_ That, and the Elven prince sought no aid, for this was merely a trifle. The Ranger reluctantly left him – that was when fate unleashed one of her snares.

Éomer fell.

Tripped, more like and by Orcs who deviously hid themselves among the dead and dying. "Éomer!" He barely cried out before one of the Orcs lunged forward, leaping over the sprawled bodies of the Dunlendings, one mailed hand lashing out to snap his neck. Legolas ducked under it. Hissing, the creature seized him before he could recover, slamming his back into the gates. Disoriented by the sudden bloom of discomfort in his side, he stared into the Orc's eyes, which blazed wickedly in the moonlit darkness. They were once Elves who had never seen the light of the Two Trees. One of the Avari – one of his own. The knowledge ached in his heart.

_Dare you strike one of your own?_

No. Yes. He could not decide. His knife lay useless in his hand.

"Legolas!" Aragorn's sword cleaved through the darkness, through gristle and gore, through the torso of the Orc, and the halved pieces fell at his feet. Black blood splattered onto his mail and stained the stones. There was no rain to wash this filth off him. Stumbling away from the gates, he clenched his teeth as his side burned. "Legolas! What ails you?"

"'Tis but a minor ache."

"Do not be so stubborn, my friend. It pains you."

"I am still able to fight," he grit through his teeth. Stepping forward as if nothing happened, he looked behind him, noting Gimli's presence. Two decapitated Orcs lay slain where the Dwarf's axe claimed them. Aragorn had gone forward to aid the nephew of the King of the Mark, and he gamely strode on, ignoring the hammering in his chest. He also ignored the strange expressions on the Men's faces, at their realization that he had foregone his chance to kill. In turn, he nearly faced the Halls of Mandos. One foot at a time, one after the other on the narrow path, despite the throbbing in his body, and Legolas breathed a sigh of relief as he crossed treacherous ground.

The others were not far behind him. Éomer swung the postern-door shut, Aragorn barred it, and Gimli – dear Gimli – heaped stones against it. Fatigued by the voice that was starting to gnaw on his conscience, his near death experience, and the wound his brother gave him, he silently stood and observed the surroundings. Gimli had saved Éomer's life, trying to banish sleep; the Man of the Mark mentioned something about repayment of this debt. Just as he owed a debt to Aragorn for saving him during a time of conflict but the man was nowhere to be found. The other swordsmen left them to return to their duties on the wall, and the Elf felt alone.

"Master Legolas, how many did you kill ere this night is over?"

Ah, but there was still Gimli! "No, how many fell to your axe, my stout friend?"

The Dwarf opened his mouth, only to snap it shut. His eyes glimmered with veiled concern. "Let us join them on the wall, Legolas. You might have need of it – you are hurt."

"It is nothing but a scratch. You need not concern yourself."

"From the way you carry yourself, I say I should," Gimli curtly replied. "You move not with your usual elegance, Legolas. Why did you hesitate in killing that Orc? It would have killed you if Aragorn did not come to your aid." Gimli's mailed hand, unlike that of the Orc's, closed gently around his and pulled him forward. "Come on. Let us not linger here."

Gimli was right. The Dwarf saw through his stoicism, right into the distress that halted his steps. Pressing his lips together, Legolas forced himself to move. There was no warmth soaking his tunic, yet the injury Mornereg inflicted cut sharply into him. He wondered if the wounded and maimed Teleri at Aqualondë felt this betrayal of their flesh after the massacre. Did they survive their grief, after the seizure and rape of their ships, which the Noldo Fëanor burned? Then, like the crack of a whip inflaming his back, he staggered beneath the enormity of his situation. How could he defend himself in this state?

_Consider it justice for what you have done to your people, kinslayer._ He was suddenly aware of his pallor, leaving him shaking and pale. _Kinslayers are not held in high regard, young Elf. It would be better if you killed yourself, rather than face the wrath and judgment of the Valar._ No, kinslayers were not the epitome of honor; Legolas learned that early on. It was bitter knowledge, considering what his eldest brother had done, and what he now faced. _Yes, misguided Elf. Slay another – add it to your tally and proclaim yourself a hero._

No. Yes. No. Orcs were once Elves, twisted by cruelty, darkness, and hate. In their current guises, they were nothing more than snarling, brutal foes to be vanquished. Killed without a second thought. If any spark of gentleness or Elvish light glowed within, it was hidden by Melkor and Sauron's enshrouding sorcery. Darkness wrapped around them, strangling any remnant of their former beauty and glory. It stripped them of all joy in living, transforming that into a hatred for all life. His knees felt weak.

_"Legolas!"_

Ai Elbereth! That was what he would become!

Gimli's gruff baritone barked out in alarm. "Foolish Elf! Legolas – before you!" Thrust into battle once more; driven by Gimli's cry, he wielded his blade before him in time to see sparks flying from the clash of steel. He paled at how closely death brushed him yet a second time. Bestial eyes rolled in wrinkled sockets – the Orc grunted; its sword glinting in the faint starlight. His hand trembling, Legolas warily stepped back. The Orc shuffled forward, its haunches oozing from the bite of a Dwarven axe. They were equally hindered; he from the lancing fire in his side, and the fell creature from Gimli's offense. In those eyes from which he could see nothing but hatred and destruction, Legolas sought to find an inkling of Elvish awareness. The edge of a black blade crashed into the slender flat of his, forcing him back.

There was nothing kind in those eyes. Nothing at all.

Crying out from frustration and the futility of his plight, he shoved back, tumbling the Orc to the wet sheen of stone below. The fell blade thrust past his shoulder as he descended, scraping into the joined rings of his mail. In a thrice, he was upon his foe, baring its gullet to the shining edge of his notched blade. The Orc hissed and screeched. To Legolas' shame, his grip lessened on the handle. _Take me not as a kinslayer, Ilúvatar._ Guilt raged and redemption bowed its head, for the deed was done before he knew it.

With his hand, by his blade, in front of him lay the slaughter.

_It matters not whether Ilúvatar takes you for a kinslayer._ An Istar's voice, soft, all whispers yet laden with the truth and poison of all of his years. _Did you not know, Legolas, son of Thranduil? You are a kinslayer, or you would not seek absolution._ So it was, rising to his feet, gazing down at the kill he now claimed; he heard himself ask how many Gimli slew. Hatred against the Orcs, against Saruman, against Sauron, and against himself overwhelmed him. He faintly heard Gimli's enthusiastic reply.

"Two!" The Dwarf patted the much-worn axe head, glancing up to meet his eyes.

He forced a smile. "Two?" Hiding his turmoil behind a solid composure – well-honed by the politics of his father's court, no less – he bantered on. "I have done better, though now I must grope for spent arrows; all mine are gone. Yet I make my tale twenty at the least. But that is only a few leaves in a forest." In a forest of deaths and dying that boded ill for him since his weaknesses were apparent. Bowing his head, he stared morosely at the fallen, then plunged himself recklessly into the never-ending night of war and strife.

His wound still burned in time to the beat of his fugitive heart.

_Ilúvatar__, forgive me._

* * *

Thranduil stormed toward one of the many dungeons in his realm. It was not daily when a high Elf-lord, one of the Noldor, and Glorfindel no less, rode into his kingdom with his eldest in tow. Mornereg, condemned by the word of his brother and that of the Elves in Imladris, was under scrutiny. One of his sons bore the guilt of kinslaying, or near to it, if it was not for the staying hand of Nimthôn. Legolas had been stabbed with his own knife, Glorfindel told him as he delivered his burden into his hands. If not for the skills of Elrond, Legolas would have bled to death in one of the Elven shelters of Arda. 

_'Tis not what I sent you to do! To plan foul murder against one of your own!_ "Go upstairs and leave me with my son," he snapped to the guards, whom promptly gathered their gear and left. One of the younger wardens, wide-eyed, glanced quickly at him before he descended the steps that led down to the many cells where seventy years ago, he had imprisoned some Dwarves. Tonight, the very presence of his eldest stirred his blood raging hot. He stopped before one of the locked wooden doors and gazed into furious grey eyes.

"Father – are you here to grace me with your presence?"

The scorn in his son's voice was hard and cutting. "You will not address one of your elders with that kind of tongue, Mornereg. You will hold your silence until I demand that you speak. You know what I am down here for."

"Of course. You want answers. You want me to admit what I have done." Through the square window small enough only to permit a man's face, the faint gleam of dark hair accompanied a stubborn shake of an arrogant Elven head. "I am afraid, though, _ada_, that my answers will not satisfy your curiosity."

"Silence!" His nails embedded half-moons into the flesh of his palms as he clenched his fists. "Why did you attempt to kill your brother?"

A thread of laughter wove itself around them. "Ah, yes – I thought he was the center of your concern. You see, Father – Legolas is no longer the son that you should love. He is tainted by darkness, and has become one of them. Should I not blot out such a blemish on our house?"

"Have you not heard of the arrogance that led to the first kinslaying of our people?"

"You taught it to us, _ada_."

"And?" Thranduil gazed hard into those eyes that mirrored his own fury. "Have you learned naught?"

Mornereg shrugged. "They did wrong, plundering ships that were not theirs for the taking. What I did was to spare you and the rest of our house from horror and dread. It is within my right as the eldest."

"What horror and dread would Legolas have brought back to these woods?"

"Last I saw him, he was in Orcish shape. Is that creature the kind you want trampling around our fair dominion?" Anger seethed through Mornereg's words, revealing itself in the knot on his brow. "Do you want to see that fell thing in your halls? How can you trust such a thing? Legolas is dead, Father! Persuasion falls hard on your ears; yet, your son is no more!"

Glorfindel's counsel ere he left his kingdom told otherwise of Legolas' plight; Thranduil knew that much. "So, you in your folly, spilt blood in Imladris despite the anguish your brother suffered? You do not know, nor understand of his suffering! Ilúvatar take you should you persist in your enmity! My sons were not raised to kill one of their own."

"Oh, I understand his suffering well enough, Father. The Orcs had their way with him, in all matters of their foul delight. His reticence betrays him."

"I was there to see his wounds. Do not presume to tell me what you know."

"You still love him?" Disbelief cracked his son's tremulous voice. "You are willing to bring back here, to our kingdom, one so battered and fouled that his very presence will upset the ways of our court? How will you explain to your subjects that Legolas, son of Thranduil, has been reduced to a wretch? Will you show them his scars? His temperance of mind?" Then, disbelief folded to renewed spite. "How can you _still_ love one such as him?"

"Because he is my son, your brother, and your late mother's child." It was not difficult to match Mornereg's wrath. His late father, Oropher, had very much the same disposition; without a doubt, Thranduil knew that he bore the traits of his sire, and so did his children. One of them stayed the night in Imladris under the counsel of Elrond; another dear to him fought for the sake of Middle-earth; and this last child, rebellious and nigh treasonous, glared at him as if he had been betrayed. The irony of that would have amused Thranduil if the matter at hand was not utterly dire. "Your brother, whom you hate, is not a kinslayer unlike yourself. Only his forgiveness will release you from these walls."

Mornereg turned his back. "That weakling will not forgive me."

"You will not speak ill of your brother whilst you dwell in my halls." The Elven king turned on his heel, ready to leave. The coldness in his eldest son's eyes grieved him. "I will leave you to ponder on your act, my son. Perhaps isolation will change your mind."

"Very well, _ada_. If you insist."

With that echoing in his ears, Thranduil ascended the stairs, back into light and melancholy song.

* * *

The enemy kept coming, swarming past the Deeping Wall with the help of ladders and grappling hooks. The fleet-footed Elf ran his bloodied blade over one of the many ropes, and was rewarded with the shrieks of the fallen. Still, they came, black and terrible, bearing death and menace to all those defending the besieged fort. Aragorn, Éomer, and the Men of the Mark swept over them like a shining wave, only to be beaten back by sheer numbers. The slaughter continued, the bodies turned into mountains, and the night never seemed to end. 

_Elbereth, give me strength!_ Killing the Orcs had gotten no easier than before. With each swift descent of that glittering edge, an Orc stumbled at his feet. Black blood ran messily down his mail, branding him as one of their killers. It seemed to burn into him – each creature's snarl pained his ears; every plunge of the knife shattered his heart. _Kinslayer_ – that insidious voice chanted. _Kinslayer, for every tally you engrave into your game._ There were too many Orcs overwhelming them; he had no choice but to slay or be slain.

It was a cruel choice.

Adding to the three he killed earlier, his count of slain Orcs reached about two dozen. Should Gimli ask again for a revision of those numbers, he would have to retract his sum of twenty. Seventeen men of Dunland and only three Orcs prior to this fresh assault. Legolas was sure the Dwarf only counted Orcs into the final tally – it was a challenge he would have enjoyed, if not for what he knew. _Elves twisted into Melkor's army, sent out to destroy all that was fair and good._ And he, should his will fail, would become as one of them if only by shape.

By Ilúvatar's grace – not here. Not now.

Behind him, a clamour of shouting, ringing steel, and whinnying joined the commotion. Whirling, he saw the signs of ambush and the amusing sight of Gimli's stout form barreling from the wall into the Deep. A raised axe crunched into a helmed head, adding another to his companion's list of kills. _"Khazâd! Khazâd!"_ The stentorian bellow blasted past the din, rising to the beleaguered wall where he stood. "Ai-oi!" Flipping his weapon, Legolas backhandedly stabbed an Orc encroaching on his periphery, aware that any distraction could leave him for dead. "The Orcs are behind the wall. Ai-oi! Come, Legolas! There are enough for us both! _Khazâd ai-mênu!"_

There was no need to join Gimli in the Deep. Sidestepping a spear thrust, he leapt into the range of the baffled Orc. His forgotten shield smashed into the ugly visage, breaking his foe's balance. Even as the Orc grappled for its spear, he stepped on it, rendering the polearm null. Blackened lips drew back, revealing jagged and yellow teeth as the Orc hissed and spat. _"Snaga!"_

He spun around, buckler at the ready. A spearhead skittered off the round metal boss, skewering into wood. The Orc opposing him sickeningly grinned. "Elf," it said, and his world flattened into a miasma of pain that tore into his left. His foot slipped, driving his knee hard into unforgiving stone. Throwing his arm back out of reflex, he heard the dull thud of it pound the Orc behind him even as his head jerked skywards. Clawed fingers clenched around his neck, raising him while his helm was roughly discarded to the side with a clatter of metal. Foul breath poured into his face, sending his senses reeling. "So it was you who killed our captain," the monster snarled, tightening its hold. "Die, then."

Legolas gasped as his throat constricted. _Kinslayer._

The long white knife, limp in his hand, curled within the confines of his weakened digits.

_Strike! Slay them! Legolas, act!_

As if underwater, he felt his arm rise; blade eager for blood.

_They were once Elves, foolish princeling. Kill them, and be damned for the rest of your years._

He pushed, driving the insatiable edge through mail and flesh. Felt the wetness of gore, the unmistakable grind of gristle and bone, and the sloppy slice of vital organs. With a dying howl, the Orc flung him aside. Grimacing as he collapsed in a sprawl of limbs, Legolas inhaled, tasting the air that filled his wracked lungs. Through seared eyes, he glimpsed the corpse of the Orc that had struck him from behind. Struggling to his feet, he limped over to the grotesque thing he had killed and wrested his knife from its ribs. It relinquished its grasp wetly, smeared the whole length with fetid gore and matter. Was it an enemy or a tormented being that lay before him? A moment ago, it was killing him.

_Yet._ Yet –

Shaking his head, Legolas met the worried eyes of Aragorn and Éomer. Brushing aside the Dúnedan's outstretched arm, he dragged himself over to an unoccupied spot on the wall, where he promptly settled himself. Dizziness swamped him, drowning out his thoughts even as he opened his pack to remove a whetting stone. If only that Orc had not smashed his spear haft into his damaged body. If only Mornereg had not attempted to kill him prior to this important battle. The night was far from over, and he was slowly deteriorating. Soon, he would become a danger to himself.

That did not bode well at all.

"Legolas, you need treatment. You are hurt." Dark eyes swollen with anxiety fixed onto his. "Please, my friend. Do not do this to yourself." Aragorn flanked his right. Éomer soon joined him on his left. "I do not wish to see you dead."

"Aragorn is right, Legolas. While it is quiet, let us treat you."

Flat stone scraped smoothly across steel, polishing away the first of the visible notches on the blade's edge. "I can handle myself, Aragorn. Let me do this if only for the sake of my pride." He left unsaid what Aragorn already knew. _Let me regain my dignity that I lost during the skirmish at Emyn Muil._ _Let me prove to myself that I still am a warrior, despite all that befell me._ One forward and backward stroke at a time, making his weapon whole for the next wave of attack when this lull ceased. For himself, the process took longer, and may take the rest of his immortal years. Whatever it took, he was going to regain his _fëa_ from nightmares and shadows.

This was a beginning to the end.

"Twenty-one!"

Gimli brandishing his axe usually awed and amused him, for the short warrior was formidable. Sharpening his knife, he gazed at the friend he had made in Lothlórien, and found he could not smile in enjoyment. His tally hung in front of him like a list of sins, and he could not fathom why, after all of this time, he still accused himself of wrongdoing. "Good!" For Gimli's sake, Legolas tried to put up a front. "But my count is two dozen. It has been knife-work up here." That much was true.

His resolve took a precarious step back, trembling.

_Kinslayer._

Every measured stroke sounded like a knell of judgment to his ears.

_Kinslayer._

Oh, Valar – forgive me for what I have done!

_Kinslayer._


	19. Helm's Deep Song of the Dawn

Title: Shadows Amongst the Leaves

Chapter 19: Helm's Deep – Song of the Dawn

Author: RinoaDestiny

Contact: M

_Disclaimer:_ All characters in this fanfic belong exclusively to Tolkien and his estate – minus made-up ones like Thranduil's two other sons and court members. I'm just writing what I think would be an interesting take on the trilogy from multiple characters' POVs. Also, some of the direct quotes in this chapter come from the 'Helm's Deep' chapter in The Two Towers.

_Author's Note:_ I'm doing more canon research, and have acquired _Morgoth's Ring_ from the HoME series so that I can understand the ways of the Eldar better. That, combined with _The Silmarillion_ and _Unfinished Tales_ gives me a better glimpse of the intricate mythology and history Tolkien created. Also, expect updates in increments of months instead of yearly stretches, now. Working on two fanfics at once gave me huge incentive to pick up on both, with this being one of them. And once again, quality over quantity – it's really exhausting but worth it all in the long run. Let me know if my style got sloppy in this one - breaks on long stories tend to kill my overall voice after a while.

**Shadows Amongst the Leaves**

**Chapter IXX**

The lull was brief; their rest short, cut asunder by greater forces of evil and chaos that milled beneath their feet. The gleaming sword of Andúril, relegated from being a cane for one battle-weary Ranger to that of a smiting blade, crashed down like a falling star. The Deeping Wall no longer stood intact, broken as it were from Saruman's cunning devilry. Darkness streamed in as if separating from nightfall, only hideous because of the cacophony of steel and barbarian grunts that shattered the peaceful silence. Wielding his sword double handedly, Aragorn glimpsed an Orc head fly into the bloody wreckage before spinning around to face a mob of bloodthirsty monsters and wild men. Around him, the Rohirrim fought back-to-back, with captains splintering away to direct help to grievously pressed allies.

Parry. Side step and take the advantage. Draw back, pivot, resume. Guard the front; watch the back; keep eyes open to the sides. Years of martial training beneath the tutelage of his foster father, Elrond, and the sprinkling of Elvish wisdom by the great lord Glorfindel kept his senses sharp and his arm strong. Hewing down a creature that tried to escape the wrath of a Rohirric blade, Aragorn jerked his face aside as black blood squirted upwards. He would have to clean himself of this gore once this battle ended. His Elven brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, oft returned from a massive slaughtering of Orcs drenched in filth, which they promptly washed off before presenting themselves before their father. It seemed common enough to them – pittance for the violence done to their mother and the grief to their sire. Since that day, the Last Homely House bore both tears and laughter. Elrond's sons, fey in their fury, took their vengeance elsewhere.

Another half-circle swing, complete down to the body he left behind as their defense broke. Gimli had disappeared into the Deep, now showing the strength of the Dwarves with the full mettle of his axe. Unable to reach him, the Dúnadan joined the flood of men racing towards the shelter of the citadel. Behind him followed a dark tide of howling Orcs and fierce Dunlendings. Soon, the outskirts of the Hornburg would fall to them, staked by their banners and manned by their captains and troops. Anyone left outside of the inner defenses would be forsaking their lives, yet this was exactly what he did. Turning to face the legions behind him, he outstretched his sword to warn them not to cross. This would give ample time to the men racing up the stairs towards the sanctuary of the tower; as for him, he barricaded the first step.

Aragorn felt somewhat akin to Gandalf confronting the Balrog, though the terror was less.

Then, amazingly, a clear voice penetrated that silence – this calm before the storm. "All who can have now got safe within, Aragorn." Unmistakably Elvish with its lilting quality, it was also unmistakably a weary Legolas who spoke. "Come back!"

Deciding to ask the Elf later how he managed to fight his way up the stairs in his condition, Aragorn whirled about and sprinted towards the beckoning door of the citadel. The distance lengthened even as his footfalls echoed noisily in his ears, and he wondered how he was ever going to make it. Above him, the kneeling figure of Legolas nocked his bow, directing its lethal path downwards. Aragorn could not help but think about the accuracy of his friend's shot, for since Legolas found out that devastating truth, the Ranger had seen his fortitude waver. He had seen the hand of death brush by the Elf more than he would have liked in this battle, and when he disappeared with the breaking of the lull, he feared for him. Yet, Legolas now manned high ground while he tried to approach it.

Then, whether out of weariness or ill chance, he tripped and stumbled.

It should have been his death with the screaming horde behind him. Fiendish howls and yells caterwauled as the Orcs scrambled, shoving each other aside to claim their prize; in that moment, Aragorn knew death laid its hand upon him. Mailed arms reached out to grab him, to drag him down, and to smite him 'til he lay dead at their feet. He had no chance to turn, to fend for himself. It should have been his doom – his last stand before his forcible descent beyond the circles of the world.

It should have been, and it was not.

A Rohirric arrow, fletched with red and copper feathers, thudded into a swarthy throat, crumpling the Orc behind him. Giving thanks that his Elven companion aimed true, he surmounted those steps – with the resounding crash of a boulder rolling down being an additional reinforcement – and advancing upon the upper stairs, glimpsed Legolas' pale face before they both closed the door on the defeated world behind them.

* * *

_Oromë, Lord of Forests and the great hunter, let me not err!_ This, he had cried in his heart as he released the shaft that would determine Aragorn's life or death. When the bolt hit, knocking back the Orc closest to Aragorn, Legolas sighed in relief. He feared the trembling of his hand, of the lessening of his draw but the Vala was with him. The strike had killed one that would have slain his companion, if it lived. The answering call of a large stone followed his blow, and the steps below erupted into squeals, grunts, and animalistic howling. The Ranger soon hastened behind his steps, face drawn and haggard. Those perceiving eyes glanced at him briefly, only to turn aside as they slammed the door shut, barring it. 

Legolas released his end of the wooden beam, focusing worriedly on Aragorn. The other man raised his sleeve, wiping sweat off his glistening face. "Things go ill, my friends." If it were anything as ill as Aragorn nearly losing his life, Legolas would have choked with fear. He nearly did, perched there on the upper steps, watching the commotion below. If his aim was false; if he released the arrow a second too late –

Instead, Aragorn stood here with him. He was safe. He had done his task. "Ill enough," he replied, raising his brow, "but not yet hopeless, while we have you with us. Where is Gimli?"

"I do not know," Aragorn counter replied. "I last saw him fighting on the ground behind the wall, but the enemy swept us apart."

A fierce chill seized him, opening the sluice-gates of his blood. Veiling his shock, he merely shook his head. "Alas! That is evil news." He need not hide the horror in his voice, for it raged through him as ice. Numbly, he looked at Aragorn, hoping for a word of consolation. When the lull broke, the numbers set upon them were many. Their circle shattered as each went to the defense of others, with Gimli hacking Orcs on route to the Deep. Éomer accompanied the Dwarf, whilst Aragorn and he battled their way towards the citadel. Limping, hardly steady on his whirling feet, he fought viciously to attain high ground where the dark mass beneath could not reach him. His side ached; his breath came hard and short, and he collapsed to his knees as he approached the upper stairs. His body trembled, and then he saw. Saw, and reached for his gleaned last arrow.

And so. "He is stout and strong," his friend said, gently placing a begrimed hand on his shoulder. "Let us hope that he will escape back to the caves. There he would be safe for a while. Safer than we. Such a refuge would be to the liking of a dwarf."

It would be. "That must be my hope," he said, feeling more confident concerning Gimli's plight. "But I wish that he had come this way. I desired to tell Master Gimli that my tale is now thirty-nine." Another tally of fifteen Orcs to his list of kills, all slain as he inelegantly wove his way through the melee, desiring to escape fell blades before his body betrayed him. Fifteen slashes with a long white knife, punctuated by multiple stabs if the Orcs did not die. Most of them did; others gave him a harder fight. His blade needed cleaning and sharpening once this battle ended – if they survived as victors – and he needed treatment. His side lanced with fire, soaked through with seeping blood while one of his knees locked, bruised after the Orc cast him to stony ground. They were perilous injuries – such as would cripple even the most experienced of warriors.

Aragorn would scold him for his stubbornness later, he knew.

"If he wins back to the caves, he will pass your count again." His companion chuckled; his worn and weary face alit with rare merriment. "Never did I see an axe so wielded."

"I must go and seek some arrows," he said, laying a hand upon the wooden bar. "Would that this night would end, and I could have better light for shooting." As if firing quarrels into the enemy lessened the anguish in his heart. He supposed that long-range combat gave him excuses, for he did not have to gaze directly into faces twisted by hatred. In close combat, he had no choice but to stare as his knife swept bloodily through another life. The thought of lifting that bar, of entering into captured ground, and of being taken prisoner froze him. Still, he needed whittled Rohirric shafts, and his quiver was empty. His other hand wrapped around the beam, ready to haul it from its iron supports.

Unsurprisingly, Aragorn stopped him. Fingers, longer than his, closed around his slender ones. "Not now, Legolas." Dark hair tumbled over broad shoulders as the man shook his head. "Not in your state."

"I refuse to be left inside with nary a weapon in sight while the rest of you fight and die."

"I am not refusing your valour, or your lot in battle." The words were softly spoken. "I saw you fight, and it worries me. You did not move to slay the Orc at the gates. You are limping, barely able to stand. Should you leave this place, I fear I may never see you again."

"Do not take me for an invalid."

Dark sepia eyes met his, narrowing. "Nay. Rather, I should not want to see you as a corpse, son of Thranduil. Saruman's forces have breached and taken the wall – you know that. You need not go out into death and danger to prove yourself."

"Then what should I do, Aragorn? Stay within while the fort falls around me?"

"No." The word was gently said, like a pebble rippling water. "If the fort should fall, we will defend it. Then, Legolas, within these walls, we will fight until there is no more need for battle."

"Until death overtakes us, by your meaning," Legolas replied, feeling his heart clench. "To go beyond the circles of Arda."

"'Til then."

Reprimanded, overtly overwhelmed by the turn in their dialogue, the Elf let his fingers slacken. From without, there was the faint sound of bestial roars, breaking over silence like the deep grumble of thunder during a storm. Whilst the passing torrent had resolved itself, they were sitting within the thick of another, awaiting their end. '_Tis not the calm that frightens me_, Legolas thought, watching as the Dúnadan lightly shook him on the shoulder, then left, heading deeper inside. '_Tis the waiting; this harkening of defeat. This helplessness…._ With the Ranger gone, he succumbed to the pain smoldering at his side. He had not given sign of his hurts, concerned about Aragorn's distraction during a time that called for leadership.

Uncertain as to when his knees met hard stone, Legolas groped for the wooden beam. His mouth tasted of salt and iron, blood and tears mingled. He shook his head, tossing grimy locks, unable to rid himself of the tearing and pulling that devastated him so. A trembling hand brought into his blurred sight a hideous crimson imitation of Saruman's distinctive mark, eliciting a shudder that only provoked more pain. Sweat stung his eyes, swelling over his brow, and he flattened his bloody palm down, imprinting the floor with his weakness. The flavor of rust on his tongue sickened him, alarming him more so when a cough flecked red on gray.

It was not possible – it could not be.

Groaning, he turned his face towards the door, welcoming its solidity. There was a steady flow of scarlet staining his mail; each discharge of blood pulsed in time to the beat of his own traitorous heart. He could not be dying, Ai Elbereth! Faint shimmers of smoky torchlight seared his eyes, so he shut them, willing to sleep. There would be nothing but vestiges of nightmares in his dreams – dark paths winding forever into even more darkness, and he alone on them, still lost. He lost his footing, his reasoning as an Elf of the highest Silvan order a long time ago. He had left it behind during a living nightmare, and he was so tired.

Perhaps, this was what it was like to die. To drift endlessly into sleep, unknowingly crossing the bounds that separated this world and the next. He thought of Gimli, of the gruff Dwarf with his renown and valor. He remembered Aragorn; had felt the gentleness of his touch, seen his capabilities as a long-lost king refined, and would forever call him his brother in arms. Gandalf – Mithrandir – gleaming white upon his return from the chasm, brilliant and witty as an Istar like him could be. The hobbits, all of them: Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin. A gift of friendship, of trust, of a cloak in the night and lembas beside him when death was the only morsel he would have partaken of. His lordship - his father Thranduil. Soul against soul, holding back the memories, warding off the chill that would have stripped him of his immortality. Nimthôn, cradling him against loss, even as the tears silently fell. Another face, haloed darkly, held only memories of what could have been. His brother, Mornereg, whose strike was the one painting him even now with the impending truth of yet another loss – that of himself.

It was so cold.

"Aragorn," he heard himself say, his voice a mere whisper. Somehow, his other hand had fallen from its support, lying still beside him. He was so afraid to enter into those halls, where Mandos held sovereign over the dead. "Aragorn," he attempted again, barely grasping the desperate inflection shading the name this time.

It was not needed.

A cry, the sound of boots against shale, and strong hands cupped around his cheek, lifting his face upwards. "Legolas!" A curt command, the shuffling sound of footsteps, and something hard pressed against his lips. "Legolas, son of Thranduil! Why did you not speak?"

He collapsed into Aragorn's embrace, hard-pressed to resist. "Aragorn," he managed to gasp out before the metal lip of a flask rattled against his teeth. Legolas had not realized he was shivering. Liquid flowed down his throat, breaking the slow pulsing of his blood and ridding his mouth of the dryness of death. He coughed, bringing up fluid dyed vermillion. "Ai Elbereth," he said, letting the quiet invoking of Varda of the stars bleed into silence. "What…what is it that you gave…" He tried to remove himself from his friend's grasp, and found he could not.

"It is something that I carry during my travels. It stops the blood from within, to cease the pallor that accompanies it. There is much danger of death while out in the open, and a wound such as yours could prove to be fatal. As yours nearly was," Aragorn said, brown eyes torn with love and worry. "Why did you not tell me?"

"A mere –" It was so difficult to speak. "A mere loss such as myself…the battle, Aragorn. You cannot save everyone."

Those eyes hardened for a moment. "I can try, can I not?" A sigh. "Legolas, you cannot think to go into the fray like this. Even for your pride, it would be naught but suicide. I will need to see the wound ere I head out."

"When you do, may I request accompanying you?"

"In your state, it will be perilous. Legolas, you were bleeding to death! Can you not see that –"

"If I should die, give me the grace to do so at your side. It would be a better end, meeting Mandos with your presence there, than seeing my blood run along the floor whilst I lay here like an invalid."

A shaky smile. "Did you not proclaim that you should not be taken as such?"

"Consider it my folly. I must have been around Gimli for too long, or my lord-king's traits befitted me better than any glove or mail." He hissed, arching in agony as Aragorn began to unfasten the section of armor around his torso. His heel dug into the pitted stone, scraping back as the intensity from Mornereg's wound increased to an unbearable point. As the discarded mail hit the floor with a shimmer of sound, Legolas glimpsed the glistening sheen of his blood. Trembling, he immediately felt Aragorn's embrace tighten.

"Calm, Legolas. Calm."

He tried, and did not find it hard, given in whose arms he lay. Closing his eyes, and hearing Aragorn's sharp intake of breath at that, he opened them. Torchlight flickered in his periphery, dancing like wraiths set in golden glass. Fingers shifted the delicate belt he wore around his bloody waist, unclasping the buckle with a practiced motion. Cloth draped heavily to one side, drenched, and cold air bit into his heated side as a blade cutting open a fresh wound. Legolas swallowed a sharp gasp, fighting off a wave of nausea. From where he lay, he could see the damage dealt from the Orc's accurate blow. He should have been grateful that his ribs were spared, but the sight before him was gruesome. His whole side was black, engraved with the impression of rings from where the armor collided through clothing and drove into flesh. The bloodstained wrappings tangled messily in the corner, useless. His insistence on fighting had torn apart stitches, revealing dark blood and softer matter inside. Lord Elrond had only healed part of it, he remembered. A good half of the closed gash gaped open, refusing to be closed.

"I still wonder how you managed to fight your way to higher ground," Aragorn murmured above him. A needle, larger than the ones used by maidens for girlish craft and more suitable for healers, shone in the dim glow, readied with thread. Having undergone this before during the skirmishes in Mirkwood against the forces of Dol Guldur, Legolas grit his teeth and braced himself for what was to come. When the first prick and hot discomfort passed through him, he grimaced. "This was not your first time being sewn closed for an injury, I take it?" Another pass with the needle, and a flap of skin merged shut.

"No."

"When did you take a wound that needed such skill?"

"I fought against one of the creatures that dwelled in the southern passes of our kingdom. It was then, while in charge, that I took a grievous hurt. I had never seen my lordship look so pale before."

"He nearly lost a son." It was a statement, not simply a light remark. "As he almost did not long ago."

Legolas watched as Aragorn's capable hands drew the stitches to a tight end, weaving his side with an enviable row of craftsmanship. Some liquid from the flask cleansed the remaining gore away, permitting Aragorn to wrap his midsection. A deft knot in proper places, where the mail would not dent his fragile skin, and the deed was done. He released a sigh of relief, glancing wearily upward into that open and caring face. "My thanks."

"Only to save you from an untimely death, Legolas. Do you still wish to join me on the walls after that?"

"I wish to be with you, to see the dawn. Aragorn, it is all that I ask before we make our last stand."

"It is granted, then, _mellon-nin_."

* * *

Their last stand, if it was their last – something in Legolas hoped that despite lack of intervention from the Valar that a miracle of sorts would happen. That they would not simply die here, bodies desecrated amidst the flying banners of the White Hand and all who followed Saruman. That, if they could breach this obstacle themselves, live out the storm, that they could push forward for all the Free Peoples. That Frodo would follow his painful duty to the end, so that Sauron could be overthrown once and for all. So that, if he could ever heal and discover the lit path hidden from him that he could return home. To Mirkwood, to family, to his father. To look at this when the age of Man became an undeniable truth, and consider it a lesser hurt than what it felt like now. 

But he could not be so sure that they would win.

He was not even sure about himself.

The fighting was still thick, centered upon the walls where Aragorn leapt and bound, sword flashing out to kill and to cast back thrown devices. A man on his right kicked back the rungs of a newly-erected ladder, sending it crashing with a sickening crunch below. Legolas gripped the slippery hilt of his knife; another hand clenched his straining side. The Ranger had not let him join him alone; instead, he was flanked by one of the Men of the Mark, who fought the bloodier skirmishes for him, who warded him with his life. He was in his prime, still young according to the Elvish reckoning, and before, Legolas would have deemed this guarding an insult. However, he was no fool to his condition, and he could not battle as he once did.

Even so, his blade tasted ichor.

His warden chopped down an Orc, spraying black filth on armor and tunic. Legolas turned, slower than he would have liked, and slashed the throat of a stumbling foul creature headed in his direction. For all the strength he once had, most of it was spent while he lay near death behind the safety of the door, and his hand was weak. The edge of his knife caught at the end of the cut, snagging into thick leathery skin and dark ring mail. Eyes widening, he jerked at it sideways, hoping to dislodge it. It resisted for a moment, which was almost a moment too late. Hearing the yell behind him, he dropped his hold on the long white blade, hurling himself alongside the dying Orc and nearly into the back of the wall to avoid a wicked scimitar that nearly cleaved him in half where he stood.

Instead, the Orc, doubly dead, fell to the ground in two pieces while his knife skidded down, shining silver as it spun out of reach. A quick glance at that, and then back in alarm to his assailant, twisted his stomach. He did not have enough time, or the speed to reach that distance without being brutally slaughtered. The other Orc cocked his head, eyes narrowing into ferocious slits, and charged. Legolas felt the tremor from the blasting fire beneath his feet, felt it surge and rock his footing, and threw himself to its mercy.

Fire roared, loud and deafening, shaking the foundations of the wall, simultaneously toppling both ally and enemy. The upsurge of the blast exploded in between the two combatants, showering debris and stone across the battleground. The piece of the wall under Legolas' feet flung skyward, hurtling him towards his knife and straight into another section of the wall. The landing was anything but gentle. He cried out as his shoulder slammed into stone, instantly numb. Staggering, half-blinded by the dust swirling about, only the dull glow of his blade drew his attention, and whereas he once was a moment too late, he was now a moment early.

It was just in time.

The blast had not riven the wall into a huge divide, and had the ill luck of tossing his enemy right upon his trail. Not a moment before he grabbed his knife did he hear the chilling cry echo in front of him. He had no time to think, only to react. Driven by instinct, Legolas ducked and pitched forward, hearing a sinister whine as the curved blade missed him by a hair. Slamming the knife's length ahead with both hands because of his failing strength, the squelch of tissues being torn and the hard grind of gristle and bone as the lethal edge severed spinal matter stopped his breath. It was too close. Had it not been for the fire uprooting him from where he stood minutes ago, he would have died.

He was sure of that.

Ripping his blade from the corpse of the former Avari turned Orc, Legolas hesitated, clapping a hand over his mouth. The taste of thick metal induced his rising gorge, and he spat, seeing red. Fumbling within his tunic, loosening the ties of his mail, he dug out the flask Aragorn had pressed into his hand prior to their exit. He drank deeply, calming his shaken nerves. Iron lingered in the back of his throat, vile and unwanted. He took another mouthful, then plugged the flask, slipping it carefully back in place. His hands trembled, clattering the silver knife against the bloodied mail by his thigh. Resolutely, he sheathed it, finding the urge to sleep sweeping over him like warm wind.

"Legolas!"

"Aragorn," he said, following the man's movements with a weary glance. "How goes the defense of the walls?"

"We will last until the gates fall, Legolas. How fare you?"

"Ill enough. The blast was what saved me, but the wound troubles me. My dependence upon your draught for survival does not bode well. I will follow you, shielded by your man but I cannot fight. My strength," he held out his hands, dirtied and torn, and saw understanding flicker in the other man's eyes, "is gone. I can no more fight than wish that Gimli is safe."

"Then we will guard you, Legolas."

A sudden dip of the head, his gaze lowered. "You honor me with such sentiments. It is beyond what I ask."

"You are my brother in or off the field, Legolas. As much as you fight to defend my life, so I will yours. Come, let us cease this prattle, and join the others near the gates. There is something that I wish for the enemy to hear, and if you can stand…" An arm wrapped around his shoulder, pulling him close. "Where is your man?"

"I thought he escaped unscathed."

"Was he in the middle of the wall when the fire hit?"

Legolas closed his eyes, trying to map out the positions they were in ere the blaze split them. "We were hampered. It is difficult to tell."

"We must hope that he survived. Come, Legolas – it is nearly dawn."

* * *

It was nearly dawn, with the eastern sky a wash of dwindling star-speckled light, and Aragorn was speaking. Tucked against the wall, nestled among the Rohirrim, Legolas forced himself to listen. He had unwittingly resumed the position he had taken within the shelter of the Hornburg, face to the wall, while his body surrendered to exhaustion. The silver-hafted knife lay at an angle from his hip, trustworthy during battle. His bow, its string still pliable after such strenuous use, rested against the plane of his back. It was a gift. Both assisted him in the taking of lives, of lives that were never his to take in the first place. Sweat cooled on his brow, dripping silently to the ground. Aragorn's flask, cold against his breast, held the drops that stifled the bleeding that would have killed him. He watched, as if through a dream, at Aragorn's towering figure. 

"No enemy has yet taken the Hornburg. Depart, or not one of you will be spared. Not one will be left alive to take tidings to the North. You do not know your peril." An ultimatum stated, and one ultimately, to be ignored. He saw the dark form of the Ranger jump, followed by derogatory laughter and the keening knell of arrows.

Legolas stiffened. He would have been on his feet, if not for the severe toll he had put himself through. "Aragorn!"

The shock of the blasting fire trembled through the wall, shaking the length of it. Placing his hand upon granite, the Elvish prince stared as the gate fell to pieces, shredded beyond immediate repair. This was their last stand. This was to be their final hour, and he could not move. His legs were as water beneath him, trapping him as surely as being transfixed by a spear would do. If the enemy were to sweep through, killing all in their path, he willed to die at the point of a sword or javelin. By the hand of a wild man, and not a band of Orcs. They would see him for what he was, and they would take him and torture him. He would die, screaming as his life faded from his body, evicted from Arda.

He shuddered. Not again. Never again.

Then, everything changed. A great call, a deep rumble from above that covered the whole fortress in its bellowing wake, and Legolas shook, moved. The sound fanned out, answering to others from afar, covering the land with a valley of tones and music. Desperate cries – Legolas grasped at the faint shouts of "Helm! Helm! Helm is arisen and comes back to war. Helm for Théoden King!" – rang out from below, and he cursed the fact that he could not see it. Slowly, his awareness of the excited Men of the Mark, the clatter of weapons, the rustle and clink of mail, the triumphant horns blazing their existence, the weight of his limbs, the heaviness of his weapons, and the wretched fatigue melted away into anything, everything, and nothing.

Legolas fell; eyes open to see light transfiguring darkness into day.

_To see the dawn would be reward enough. Le hannon, mellon-nin._

* * *

Sindarin: _mellon-nin_ (friend), _le hannon_ (thank you) 


	20. Kingdom at Dawn

Title: Shadows Amongst the Leaves

Chapter 20: Kingdom at Dawn

Author: RinoaDestiny

Rated: M

_Disclaimer:_ All characters in this fanfic belong exclusively to Tolkien and his estate – minus originals. _Lord of the Rings_ belongs strictly to the Tolkien Estate, and there is no profit to be made from this. References of some of Mirkwood's landmarks in Elvish come from the book _The Atlas of Middle-earth_ by Karen Wynn Fonstad.

**Shadows Amongst the Leaves**

**Chapter XX**

There were no songs to be sung; Thranduil realized when one of his captains knelt swiftly before him. "My lord, one of the scouts reported activity in the southern fringes of Mirkwood wherein the enemy lies. I bid him make haste to return, lest he put himself and the rest of the kingdom in danger. What would you have me do?" The captain was one of his finest, trained and hardened through skirmishes with the darker forces that invaded Greenwood as a shadow. With his stern mien, erect carriage, and the gleam of battle in his grey eyes, Taerlalven also served as a model for the rest of northern Mirkwood's army.

Those qualities also placed him as Legolas's immediate reinforcement during scouting and for the transport of the injured or dying. Ever since the young Elven prince left home to complete Thranduil's bidding, Taerlalven became part of Nimthôn's troops. Thranduil left him there to take command, to discharge the duties given to him and to aid in reorganizing what forces they could muster. With his other son imprisoned for the near-murder of family, Nimthôn was the only available kin of his bloodline left to bear the weight of responsibility.

He only wished that Legolas, his youngest, could carry his.

"Taerlalven, when the scout returns; have him deliver unto me a full report. Dol Guldur has lain quiet; yet, we cannot underestimate the evil there."

The other Elf held his gaze and cleared his throat. "Prince Nimthôn is with the scouting party. It seems that he left Imladris, having received his counsel and under the protection of some Elf-lords, met with them in the field."

"My son is near the border of southern Mirkwood? What are his movements as of late?" Having thought his second son safe, the news of Nimthôn's sudden departure from Elrond's house unnerved him. Schooled to hide such moments of agitation, Thranduil took note of how quickly his child assumed his given role. Instead of riding home immediately under cover of darkness, Nimthôn had joined with the captains and reinforcements to assess the plans of their enemy. It was this kind of alertness that united both Legolas and Nimthôn when commanding the defensive and offensive regiments in the open. Carrying out this kind of task single-handedly revealed true courage and the beginnings of an able ruler.

"He is making full haste to gather his troops, my lord. When he heard of the disturbance, he sent me forth to bring word and to seek your advice. Prince Nimthôn fears an ambush, but knows not the hour or day if that threat should become imminent."

"More the reason why our forces cannot sleep," Thranduil replied, glancing over the entirety of the hall and its denizens. "Cease these songs, and prepare every warrior for the long struggle ahead. We have been vigilant thus far; by Ilúvatar's grace, we shall withstand this storm that the enemy brings. Direct the scout toward the throne room, and double the guard on Prince Mornereg. That one will not wield a sword for our cause even if he proclaims his right to it."

"As for Prince Nimthôn?"

"He will know where to find me. I am trusting you follow, Taerlalven. Defend our home so that Greenwood will return, should we win this war. Defend it for your soldiers, for yourselves, and in loyalty. Defend it for Prince Legolas, so that when he returns, he will have a home to belong to. Let us not greet him with the ruins of a once-mighty dominion, with friends and family slain. Will you do this for me, Taerlalven?"

The Elf nodded; his eyes hard. "Yes, my lord. I will."

"Go, then. You have a task to do." As Taerlalven bowed and left, shouting orders, Thranduil strode in the opposite direction towards the throne room. With the quickening steps of full-fledged battle on their heels, he would be remiss to remove his presence as one equally outfitted for war. His people needed him as a beacon of strength and resilience, not simply an enthroned sovereign with his standard behind him. Two guards bowed and opened the double doors for him as he approached. Closing them quietly behind him, they left him in stately silence and the glitter of the court.

Behind his throne lay his armor and weapons. Ever since the day and year Oropher his father misjudged the strategy of the battle of the Last Alliance and paid for it in blood, Thranduil saw no reason to don the same instruments of war. As necessity would have it, however, the Battle of the Five Armies required him to do so. Reaching behind the gilded seat, he brought forth the sword he had used that day to fend off swarms of Orcs. The leather scabbard was still supple and soft, embossed with elegant circular designs. The silver locket, oiled and polished throughout the ages, shone softly. Drawing a deep breath, the Elven king unsheathed the blade with a glorious ring that echoed in the vastness like a clarion call.

It gleamed brilliantly in the warm glow of the firelight, beautiful and deadly. The edge with its blue-grey hue, curved like the underside of the moon and glittered fiercely with killing intent. Thranduil eyed the inscriptions etched into the surface, remembering his insistence at carrying the true meaning of Elvish character into a war against Sauron's evils. During the battle of the Last Alliance, the only moral standing to be found resided within the vessels of Men and Elves. That raw character, however, did not save more than half their forces from being decimated and routed.

The belt was still well maintained, and Thranduil quickly strapped it on. Sheathing the sword, he undid the cloth that held his armor and cast it aside. Dust rose in the air, dancing upward in the light like unearthly beings, and swirled down to the polished floor. Thranduil narrowed his eyes, reached forward and brought forth the breastplate. Gold glared in his sight, reflecting off of delicately worked curves. Impressive though its forging, the beauty of the armor seemed to belie its purpose; yet, an Orcish blade had deflected off it, saving his life. Placing the piece down, he gazed at the greaves, vambraces, and skirt that completed the ensemble.

One of his sons was analyzing the movements of the enemy on the southern passes. Another son sat in the dank dungeons, self-righteous to a fault. His last son fought in distant lands, still attempting to overcome himself as his own foe. For these children of his, he would charge headlong into chaos and war so that they knew that their father loved them. Assured, Thranduil seated himself, ready to command those he ruled through inevitable difficulty.

It was not a moment too soon, for the doors swung open.

"My lord, Taerlalven told me to report to you." The scout's eyes widened, and he knelt. "Will you again join us in war, my lord?"

It was the sword. "Rise, Fêrhên." It was becoming apparent to Thranduil that his wearing of arms surprised his troops, for during this entire offensive against Dol Guldur, he commanded from the vicinity of the palace, unarmed but for a dirk. "I will join the army on the field and for that; I need a detailed description of the activity you witnessed. What exactly occurred in the southern passes?"

"I saw smoke rising on the far reaches of the southern-most trees, my lord. Dol Guldur itself stands silent, but smoke means fire, and it could be fires feeding the forges. The enemy must be amassing weapons and armor as we speak. There were no Orcs or fell creatures prowling about at the border; yet, Prince Nimthôn decided that it would be best to withdraw and plan a counterattack should an ambush occur. 'Tis the agreement amongst the captains as well, my lord."

"Was your report thoroughly confirmed by the prince?"

"It was."

"Good." Battle plans would have to be drawn, and he awaited his son's arrival to initiate that. "Report to Taerlalven for further instructions." Thranduil recalled teaching his sons about the subtleness of dismissal; oft times, listening subjects understood when their duties were fulfilled before the throne of a king. T'was only the idle-minded or untrained that needed complete instructions on how many steps to stand before the throne, proper protocol in the court, and the abrupt declaration akin to being civilly thrown out. Oropher was blunt; while, being his father's son, he was not.

Nimthôn, being his child, knew when to stand at ceremony and when to discard court formalities. He wondered how quickly the reconnaissance party was being brought in; at how his son would appear before him – clad not in the garb of luxury but those of war. It was too soon again since the last battle that sent his children on their separate ways, stirring the smoldering embers of their past hatreds and dividing them with internecine strife. Thranduil mused that should his beloved be living, mayhap the bloodiness of their indignation and waged domination would still. Reflecting whereupon that possibility was never to be, he thought about laying down his hand, diverting that sullen anger elsewhere.

Like all created beings under Ilúvatar, flaws were unavoidable.

His discipline came too late. It was a father's mistake that would haunt him for the rest of his years until Arda passed and faded. He only hoped that Legolas, suffering from all his aches and sorrows, would forgive him for such an oversight.

If he survived, Thranduil thought bleakly.

His son had taken the worst of wounds in captivity, endured the cold scrutiny of his peerage, survived the backstabbing of his brother and now was a distance away fighting for his sanity, life, and the hope that Middle-earth would arise above Sauron's tyranny. Knowing the stubborn pride of his youngest, Legolas would sacrifice all if it meant keeping Sauron at bay. He nearly did so the night evil brutally robbed him, leaving his _hröa_ and _fёa_ so scarred that death should have been imminent.

It was that fact that plagued Thranduil. He had never witnessed fading after such an atrocity. His presence through Legolas' nightmare seemed to anchor his son's soul for the time being, but what if that was merely a deception? Together with Legolas' affliction and injury, what if fading was only delayed, waiting to strike at the end of all things?

He shook his head. He would not believe that.

"My lord king," a clear voice echoed across the vast room. "I am here to await your command." Nimthôn strode exactly seven paces from the throne, giving a warrior's fealty bow. It was example, lived and learned, that ran the internal workings of his court and thereby his dominion. His son appeared alert and bright-eyed; sword strapped to his hip, bow across his back, and his lightweight armor shining softly beneath the slight folds of rich dress. Grey eyes remained respectfully cast downwards, but Thranduil glimpsed the slow burn of warlike spirit behind them.

"It is good that you have arrived in such a timely manner. I received the scout's report, and I wonder if your reconnaissance of the southern passes brings us further information. It is disturbing to hear of the confirmed misgivings that an ambush might be nigh. What concerns me is the possibility of a fire attack, which is deadly in these woods. Might you have a plan that aligns with mine?"

Nimthôn's gaze never wavered, locked onto his, grey and bold. It was an astonishing change from the gentle peacekeeper Thranduil often saw. The mantle of command that normally fell upon his eldest now lay upon Nimthôn, who took his authority with dignity. It was fortunate, considering how the kingdom lacked its other two highest-ranking captains. "Should a fire attack occur, brigades will be assigned to contain it. We are hemmed in by roads with only a river to offer succor; hence, we shall station some at the Forest River to quench the flames, whilst manning the Enchanted River and attempting to lure the enemy within its waters."

"Have you considered retreat and the defense of our northern fringes?"

"I have. We will hold them hence with volleys of arrows 'til the danger of smoke and flame beckons us to withdraw. The brigades will carry out their orders and all captains shall charge their forces to make a stand. According to my judgment and that of the others, the palace will not be abandoned; nor shall we press towards the Men-i-Naugrim once we have crossed it. I myself will lead some archers out to clear the path for the reinforcements."

It was a good plan. Yet, it needed some trifling as to better adjust some details, as fallacies in war left one injured, captured, or slain. "This is my thought: Forcing the enemy back instead of handing them a retreat is far more advantageous. If we drew the flames to a certain boundary, it would provide a smoke screen for our archers. At the same time, their tactics can be reversed on them by harassing them with diversion and momentary assaults. Pushing them into their fire trap provides a possibility of comeback."

Long ago, Nimthôn took tutelage by his side, unschooled and a novice in politics and stratagem. He could see the concerned expression widening that gaze, as well as the sudden tightening of slender fingers around an elegant sword hilt. Nimthôn, he noticed, was trying his best to hold control of his innermost emotions. "What if they avoid being baited?"

"Oropher my father made the mistake of sending out his forces too early. I am trying to avoid the trap of constant retreat. You have studied the maps, my son. Beyond the Men-i-Naugrim, aligned to the east is the Emyn-nu-Fuin. The last choice you ever want to make is to place your troops with their backs to mountains, especially ones difficult to scale. Unlike Men who find their backs to the river perilous, the forest gives us means of escape. Therefore, amending your chosen strategy, we will advance towards the path stemming from the Forest Gate, stationing those swift and diligent by the rivers for support. We shall take the battle to the western expanse nearing the mountains. I am sure the Enemy will skirt rocky ground, even if it offers better height and obstruction."

"From there, killing the fire-bearers and those who would stop us would be the first priority. If the attempt fails, we withdraw to the path and barricade the flames there. At that moment, you have full authority to carry out your proposed plan. Stalwart them, agitate them, and give them the lure or the edge of your sword so that they may fall back. Force them towards the western side. We do not cut them off without any means of escape, for that brings death on our heads. Should anything change, we switch tactics."

"'Tis different from the Battle of the Five Armies, _ada_."

"Mirkwood stands for itself this time without the alliance of Men, Dwarves, and Eagles against Orcs and the Enemy's dark creatures. That is the only difference. We are the only sovereign Elven stronghold without a ring of power that can still muster strong warriors. I commanded Taerlalven to fight for loyalty, for Greenwood, for his companions, and for Legolas' return. Remember, Nimthôn – the battle is the same once these are accounted for."

"Except for Legolas' return home," his son countered calmly.

"He is committed to his duty, as you are yours. If Ilúvatar desires it, your brother will return. If he does not, his death will be sung as part of legend. Both of you are my sons; both of you know a warrior's life. Nimthôn, you tried your hand at keeping the peace, but that was not to be. I am delighted, though, to know that my son will be joining me on the eve of battle, unafraid and wholly devoted."

"As for Mornereg?"

Distaste welled within Thranduil at the sound of his eldest child's name, despite his grief at his sudden change of mood. "He is not to join us. A kinslayer foregoes all trust, all bonds, and all command. What he once had has been relinquished. I place most of it on you, Nimthôn. You have shown your excellence, even if you thought you were overlooked for the sake of your brothers' service. Let us inspect the lines. I will not let Dol Guldur strike us from Arda."

"I must study the terrain again. Did you not say that hedging the enemy against the mountain is dangerous?"

"Yes."

It was not a night of rest or slumber, or one offering much abundance of hope but the Elven king did not fret over such trivialities. When the war of the Ring truly dared break on the northern fringes of his domain, he would be fully equipped and ready to engage it. Even with one son imprisoned and the other seeking an ultimate goal, the House of Thranduil – that of the son of Oropher, once king of Greenwood the Great – was going to war.

* * *

_Taerlalven_ – straight elm-tree. (Sindarin) 

_Fêrhên_ – beech tree child. (Sindarin).

_Men-i-Naugrim_ – The Old Forest Road

_Emyn-nu-Fuin_ – Mountains of Mirkwood


End file.
